Order Of The Cross
by 0Junebug0
Summary: "Together, we will usher in the dawn of a New World. One defined by purpose and order. One in which our hands will ensure that all things find their proper place. May the Father of Understanding guide us." Those are the words that have defined my life, and shall define it forevermore. I pledged myself to the Order of the Knights Templar, and once in, there is no way out but death.
1. Prologue

**Hello folks :)**

 **First of all, thank you for checking out this story, which is both my first AC fic and my first story in English. Secondly, please keep in mind that English is not my native language and mistakes can and probably will happen, though both I and my spellcheck are trying to avoid them as best as we can. Nevertheless, if you see any sort of mistake, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE inform me about it. Honestly, I'd be most grateful and (with your consent) would definitely mention you and your helpfulness in the next chapter. So, again, inform me about it in any way possible.**

 **Third, as usual, if you either like this story, or hate it to the core, _let me know!_ There's nothing that motivates any writer more than reviews. But I'm sure most of you know that already. **

**Number four, about updates. Unfortunately, I am not the sort of writer that promises weekly updates and keeps that promise, so I won't promise anything. My updates depend on many factors, as school, motivation, ideas, etc. It might be that I'm on a roll and write day and night, bringing you a chapter a day (which, admittedly, is very unlikely), or that writer's block payed me a visit and you won't be getting anything for a few weeks.  
**

 **The next chapter will probably be up in a few days, depending on how you guys like it so far.**

 **Alright, I think that were the important points. Everyone still awake?**

 **If you haven't figured it out yet, this is a Templar's POV fic, so don't expect too many Assassins in here. Mostly told by my main protagonist, who you will meet very soon. I apologise for the numerous POV changes in the first few chapters, there are all maked by highlighting the _narrator's name_ in the beginning of his/her POV.**

 **Uh, what else?**

 **Sorry about the lack of both characters and... well, information in the summary, that was my intention as everything else appeared too much of a spoiler to me. You'll just have to trust me on that one ;) But of course, more than two people will appear.**

 **That's it, I'm done, enjoy the Prologue and remember to leave a review! Adios!**

 **~0Junebug0**

* * *

 _Order Of The Cross_

 **Egypt, September 17th, 1757**

They weren't guards.

They were dressed as guards, but she had never seen them before and she knew every single goddamned eunuch serving in the palace.

She crept deeper into the shadows so that the two men wouldn't see her. As they walked by, she overheard parts of their muttered conversation.

"...get her as quickly as possible."

"The haramlik is well guarded, sir, we only have this one chance."

"I'm quite aware, Holden, in fact..."

Their voices faded away as they made their way through the hallway, but she had heard enough.

English, without the slightest hint of a foreign accent.

She waited until there was a safe distance between them and her and started trailing them cautiously, always anxious to stay in the shadows. Just because they were foreigners and dressed as guards they could still be aligned with the governor or one of his officials.

The taller one stopped a few feet further down the hall, turned around and looked back, examining the dark hallway with narrowed eyes.

The girl pressed herself against the cold marble of the statue she was currently hiding behind and felt her heart pace quicken with every passing second.

 _He saw me._

She made herself ready to run should the man make any attempt to approach her and waited.

Nothing happened.

After a while she cautiously peered around the corner, just to see that the hall was empty.

Damn it.

Almost tripping over a large carpet, she hastily ran after them, completely dropping her guard.

Which was proven a fatal mistake.

An arm wrapped around her waist while the owner's other hand pressed on her mouth, preventing her from calling for any sort of help.

The man, it was the taller one, lifted her up effortlessly and pressed her against a wall with her feet fidgeting a few inches above the ground.

Despite hardly having enough air to breathe, she tried to both scream and bite his hand, which resulted in a muffled cry from her and an amused smile from his side.

"Well well well, what do we have here? It appears we were indeed followed by a little shadow, Holden. ", he said, not without granting her another smile of pure satisfaction.

The other man scrutinized her from a little distance, with a worried look on her face.

"What should we do with her now, sir? If we let her go she'll raise the alarm."

"Then I fear we can't let her go, can we?"

The pressure on her chest made her eyes water. She struggled for air while being seized with panic. Dark sports appeared in her field of vision, her head started spinning. Her last efforts of freeing herself slowly became weaker and weaker, until she completely gave up and accepted her fate. At least she didn't have to serve in the palace anymore. Even death was better than that.

Due to the ringing in her ears she didn't hear the voices. She just felt the man's tight grip suddenly loosen and her lungs were filled with air.

"Damn it.", the tall one cursed under his breath while flashing a glance over his shoulder.

He now held her with only one hand, while the other one rested at his sword, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. His eyes were locked on something behind the corner which she couldn't see.

This short second of distraction was her chance and she took it.

She bit his hand as hard as she could.

He snarled, but did not scream, and his grip loosened even more.

Fighting back with all the strength she had left she managed to break away from his handhold and immediately ducked away as he tried to retrap her. Before he could stop her, she leaped forward and rushed around the corner.

And almost bumped into two _real_ guards, who seemed to be on patrol in this wing of the palace.

So _that_ was what they had been distracted with.

For the second time today she was lifted from the ground and held at eye level with one of the guards.

"What are you little rat running from, I wonder?" he snarled at her in Arabic while the other one drew his dagger and playfully started waving it around.

"Causing some trouble? Answer quickly or I'll slice open your belly and decorate you with your guts, my dear."

"Intruders! " she gasped, still fighting to free herself.

He immediately placed her back on the floor and crouched down next to her, his face dead serious.

"This hardly is the right time for pranks, girl. I hope you are aware of the consequences such a thing brings with itself. Consequences for us, but mostly for you. Now tell us exactly what you saw or heard, or get out of my sight as fast as you can."

Her eyes started tearing up and her voice was shaky and high-pitched when she spoke.

"I am no liar! My mistress had sent me to the well to fetch some water for her bath when... When..."

She sniffed audibly, but quickly continued after earning a warning glance from one of the guards. "When I was there and had filled my bucket I heard voices, strange voices I did not understand. I was scared so I hid behind the well. A few moments later two men appeared. They were dressed in the same clothes as you, but had bloodstains on theirs. I did not understand what they were saying but I think I heard something about his Excellency and the saramlik. After they left I stayed hidden for a while, and then ran away, I was terrified, you have to understand me!"

Now she was sobbing, covering her face with her tiny hands.

"Stop crying.", the guard ordered harshly. "What did they look like? Where were they heading? Pull yourself together girl!"

The other one raised his hand and hit her hard against the side of her head.

"Speak, you useless brat!", he shouted.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!", she cried. "It was dark and I was too scared to take a look. They had very fair skin, unusually pale. And tall. That's all I saw I swear!"

The second guard seized her by her collar. "Where. Were. They. Heading."

She shakily pointed a finger in the direction they came from. He tossed her on the ground and started running, closely followed by his companion.

In the moment they were out of sight she stood up, wiped off her tears, straightened her back and, with a perfectly steady voice, called over her shoulder.

"You can come out now, they're gone."

The two strangers appeared from the corner, the tall one mustering her suspiciously. In the light of one of the torches on the wall, she was finally able to see his eyes. They were grey like the colour of the ocean on a cloudy day.

"You speak English.", he said, matter-of-factly. "Who are you?"

"Just a humble servant of His Excellency's concubines, nothing more.", she answered coolly.

After a short moment of silence, in which they just stared at each other, the other man asked: "Why are you helping us?"

She averted her gaze from the grey eyes and turned to the other stranger, but didn't answer immediately.

"Because you can help me just as much as I can help you."

"And what exactly do you expect us to do for you?"

The tall one still wasn't convinced.

She sighed and closed her eyes for a second. Then she spoke.

"A few years ago some of the sultans men came to my home, killed all our cattle and took me with them as a punishment for my father, who was accused of speaking ill of the governor. I have served his concubines ever since. Life here has been rather unpleasant, so I've been searching for a way to escape this hell for years. I know this palace in every detail, therefore I can help you with whatever you're hoping to find here. In exchange I just want to return to my family."

They exchanged glances. After a few seconds of silence the tall one first sighed, and then spoke.

"Fine. We're looking for a woman. Dark hair. In her mid-forties. She has been a concubine for decades."

The girl nodded earnestly.

"Then she probably isn't one anymore.", she said, walking past them and signalizing them to follow her. "Come."

* * *

"Too many guards. We wouldn't make it past them without being recognised."

"Which one is she?"

"The one next to the fountain, crouching in front of the blonde. It's too far away from here, we'll never reach her."

She locked her eyes on the dark-haired woman, shifting into a more comfortable position.

They were hiding in the shadows behind a group of rather imposing pillars and observing the ample courtyard in front of them.

The harem, despite the governor's rather puny reputation, was quite ostentatious, with a large fountain in its centre, a pavement of black and white stones, walls clad in ivy and numerous beautiful women dressed in silk, accompanied by their servants.

"I'll get her and return on another route. Not far from here is a narrow hallway with red tapestry. There's a huge portrait of the governor hanging on one wall. She knows where it is. Meet me there in about-"

She paused, her eyes darting left and right as she estimated the time she would need to get to the meeting point without encountering any guards. "-fifteen minutes. If I'm not there in fifteen minutes you go without me."

"How can we be certain you don't betray us?"

"Considering that I'm your only chance to escape this palace without getting into a fight, you'll just have to trust me."

Not waiting for an answer, she stepped out of the dark and weaved her way through the crowd of concubines, servants and guards, her tiny figure almost disappearing between the tall women.

When she reached the dark-haired servant, she tapped her on the shoulder and motioned for her to go in the direction from which she came from with a brief nod, locking her eyes on the two inconspicuous guards, who had appeared behind the portico at the other end of the yard.

The woman stood up, shot an apologetic glance at the concubine she had massaged, who looked rather displeased with the situation, and approached the two men.

Assuring that she moved in the right direction, the girl waited for a few seconds and then attempted to walk in the opposite one, but the concubine, now almost infuriated for being both abandoned and ignored, grabbed her arm and pointed to her feet with a scowl.

There wasn't time for courtesies, so she simply yanked herself free from the woman's grip, grabbed the bowl of water next to her, and started running.

The concubine voiced both her surprise and her indignation with a loud scream, breaking the speaking ban.

 _Damn you, woman._

Now all eyes were riveted on the concubine and therefore on her, while she was running away.

She reached the door and risked a glance back. Five guards were on her trail, about forty feet away from her.

Her brain had already planned an escape route, she scurried through a corridor and around a corner into another one, which looked exactly like the one before, except for a few doors on her left.

At the next junction she stopped, breathing heavily, and poured the water from the bowl on the ground. Then she ran on. Shortly after, she heard cries of surprise and then cursing, which made her smile.

She hauled herself through a door, which was nearly visible due to its composure of the same material as the wall and locked it behind her.

Down a narrow staircase, around a corner, through another corridor.

Her feet pounding on the floor like the rain did on the roof of the old farmhouse she used to live in.

 _Almost there, just a couple more-_

The wooden lath came out of nowhere, all she could do was scream in surprise and agony as it hit her hard against the forehead, making her tumble, while the momentum of her escape still carried her forward.

She fell down a few feet away, hitting the ground with her shoulder, which was painful, but nothing compared to the blazing pain in her head. White spots exploded behind her eyelids and she lost all sense of perception. She couldn't see, she couldn't think. Her vision blurred, the edges turning black. But she wasn't granted the mercy of losing her consciousness.

 _Please, let me die! Make the pain go away!_

But no one answered to her silent prayer, except the sound of boots on the stone floor.

It did not matter, she would be executed for treason anyway. It was over.

With a twinge of panic, she thought about what they would do to her, what she'd have to endure before they would mercifully end her life. They were most creative when it came to torture, she had seen it with her own eyes.

Her death would be long and painful. Apart from the pain in her head, which slowly started fading away, she now felt the throbbing ache in her shoulder and cold metal against her cheek.

She froze, unable to move, curled up in a fetal position, her hands wrapped around her head. All she could do was open her eyes.

She knew the guard which had assaulted her all too well. It was the one who had ripped her from her mother's arms to bring her into this living hell.

He knelt next to her shaking body, his eyes even colder than the dagger he pressed against her cheek.

"You little bitch. Did you really think you could get away with this?"

Her only answer was a whimper, barely audible but enough to ensure the guard that she was still fully conscious.

"This sad attempt to escape this gift the governor granted you after your idiotic drunkard of a father couldn't keep his damned trap shut. He should've given you to his soldiers, they would have taught you some manners!"

His sardonic laughter rang in her ears as he increased the pressure on her face. She felt the blade pierce her skin and a warm drop of blood ran down her face like a red tear.

"He will want you alive.", the guard continued. "But I'm certain he wouldn't mind a little decoration of your face, don't you think? In fact, I believe-"

But she would never hear what he believed, as someone had thrust a dagger through his skull.

He shot her a surprised look, then his eyes went blank as he died soundlessly.

As he fell, she saw who had killed him. Behind him stood the grey-eyed man and calmly retracted his weapon, which was not a dagger, but a blade, and seemed to have extended from his sleeve.

"Are you alright?", he asked and reached out his hand to help her get on her feet.

She nodded, took his hand, stood up, and would have fallen down again, if he had not clutched her arm.

Her head was spinning.

"You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

He shot her an annoyed look, sighed, and lifted her up before she could protest.

She seemed to merely consist of skin and bones, weighing next to nothing.

Ignoring her half-hearted complaints and assurances that she could walk on her own, he carried her down the hall and into the narrow hallway she had described them earlier. There, the other man and the woman they had come for awaited them.

"Is she alright?", the woman asked with a worried look on her face.

"Yes.", the girl insisted, while her carrier simultaneously said "I suppose not."

He carefully placed her on the floor in front of the governor's enormous portrait and only released her, after assuring that she could stand on her own.

"So now what?", the other man asked, nervously checking the hallway's ends every few seconds.

Instead of answering, the girl grabbed the edge of the carpet they were standing on and tossed it aside, revealing a secret trapdoor beneath it. It was locked.

"Secret escape tunnel for the governor.", she explained. "Heard there are a few of them scattered around the palace, but this was the only one I could find. At least I suppose it's one of them, as you can see I did not manage to break the lock yet."

Indeed the rusty lock seemed to have suffered numerous attempts of breaking it, but withstood.

"That won't be a problem.", the tall one said and pulled out a pistol under his robe.

The lock shattered with a single shot, which caused a loud noise.

"Quick.", he said and pulled the trapdoor open, which obeyed with a loud squeak.

Beneath it was utter darkness, only a few steps of an old ladder visible.

The tall one's companion went first, followed by the woman and the girl. Lastly, the grey-eyed men flung the carpet back over the hatch and shut it behind him, as he followed into the dark. The guards, who arrived just seconds after, didn't find anything but an empty hallway and the governor's portrait, which looked down at them with a smug smile on his lips, as if he knew exactly that the intruders had slipped through their fingers and were now escaping several floors beneath their feet.


	2. Chapter 1

**Hey peeps (at this point, I'm just talking to myself here), it's me again. So, despite the brief time span, I decided to update sooner than I had planned. Note the POV change here. Anyway, enjoy and, as always, don't forget to R &R:)**

 **Also concerning chapter lenght, this is about what you can expect of me. One is usually between 2000 and 3000 words. C'est la.**

* * *

 ** _Нαутнαм_**

It was indeed a tunnel.

Holden had lit one of his small torches, and was now literally leading us through the dark.

Jenny was close behind, followed by the girl's small figure. I kept my eyes fixed on her, fearing that she would collapse again.

She had gone through enough pain today, she wouldn't endure much more without dropping with exhaustion.

The way seemed endless, I quickly lost track of how long we had been going.

After an eternity, at least what it had felt like, the path slowly went upwards, leading us to higher grounds.

It came to an abrupt end with a plain wooden door blocking our way.

Holden kicked it open and broad sunlight blinded us all for a few seconds, as we were greeted by the typical heat of an Arabian September day.

The way back to the cottage where we were staying was long and troublesome, as we had to take backstreets and hidden alleys to avoid being seen by the governor's men.

We didn't talk much, too exhausted for conversation, especially the girl, who couldn't quite believe her luck yet, but when we finally arrived, I took her aside. She seemed to have given thought to sneaking away, as she constantly eyed her surroundings.

I knelt down at her eye level. She shot me a suspicious look, wondering what I could possibly want of her after our escape had succeeded.

Locking my eyes on hers, I simply said: "Thank you."

She seemed surprised and her hard gaze softened a bit. "Likewise."

"I don't know if we had made it out as unharmed if you hadn't helped us. For that you have my deepest gratitude."

It was only now, in the broad daylight, that I could see her properly, and as I examined her, she looked even worse than I had expected.

Besides being heavily malnourished, she had dark circles under her eyes, which were just emphasised by her pale skin, for she had barely seen the light of day during her imprisonment. It seemed to me her eyes were the ones of a cornered animal, constantly darting around, as if she expected mistreatment in every second of her life. Her eyes itself seemed too big in her hollowed out face. She was filthy, as if her skin had absorbed the dirt she had cleaned up for the past three years, even her clothes were ragged. It seemed to me she had possessed the lowest rank of servants, as even Jenny looked healthy and well-fed and dressed in comparison to this poor creature.

The skin on her lips, hands and feet was chapped and dry from countless hours of hard work every day, and not even possessing a single pair of shoes.

In addition to that, she was covered in bruises, not just from today but she seemed to have earned a few on a regular basis. The skin under her left eye was swollen and of an unhealthy purple colour, while her bony arms showed numerous semi-healed cuts.

Her forehead was coated in blood from the laceration the guard I had killed had inflicted her.

As it was with many children, the circumstances she lived in had made her ugly.

"I want to return to my family.", she demanded, holding my scrutinising look and returning a challenging one herself.

"Soon.", I answer, "returning to your home now is too dangerous, they're probably expecting you to do so immediately."

She didn't seem convinced.

"Besides.", I continue seamlessly. "We haven't even properly introduced ourselves, have we? My name is Haytham. Haytham Kenway. My companion is Private James Holden, but he mostly goes by Holden. And the woman you helped rescuing is my sister Jenny."

Every name was accompanied by a nod of hers, as if she acknowledged them one by one.

"My name's Julie.", she said. "At least that's what my parents called me. Except when my mother was mad, then she called me Julianne, guess that's my full name. In the palace, most people called me 'girl' or 'rat' or 'midget'."

"Julie is a very pretty name.", I answered, trying to somehow keep the conversation alive so she would choose to stay. "French. Any chance you have descendants from France?"

"I think my grandmother on my mother's side was French, but we hardly talked about her, she's long dead. My dad's English."

After a moment she looked at me with curiosity. "Did you know Haytham means 'young eagle' in Arabic? That's a rather unusual name, if I dare say so."

I laughed hoarsely. "Yes, my father seemed to have thought it fitting for me."

Standing up, I opened the door to the house, gesturing towards it. "Come. We may continue this conversation after some rest and a meal, won't you say? I bet you haven't slept in a proper bed for ages."

The prospect of a warm bed and something to eat seemed to fully convince her in the end, following me into the mansion.

* * *

Three weeks later I decided that it was now safe to fulfil my promise to her and return her to her family.

Holden insisted on joining us, but I told him to stay with Jenny just in case, which he accepted.

"But you take care, sir. There may still be guards looking for her."

I promised.

After purchasing a horse on the local bazaar, Julie helped me saddle it. I noticed her professionalism with the animal, and when I asked her about it, she explained that she had been working on her father's farm since she was five years old.

In the three weeks that we had spent together, I had learned quite a few things about her. To my surprise, she was fifteen, although she looked like thirteen at most. I blamed that on the mistreatment she had suffered, alongside with her tiny figure.

She fluently spoke English, Arabian, German and a bit of French and even knew a few words in Spanish and some bits of the Osman languages spoken in the eastern European countries. Her father had taught her English and German, he used to be in the Royal Navy until he got shot in the leg in a battle, after which he retired and settled down. Her mother had taught her French, as she had lived in Marseille for a long time. The Arabian she had learned while growing up.

Even though only three weeks had passed, her appearance had changed dramatically. The dark circles had faded and her skin tone was now, although still fair, of a healthy colour. Her light brown hair, once tangled and greasy, was now neat and clean, and even though she was still way too thin, she had gained some weight. The bruises had healed and she now proudly possessed a few nice clothes and two fine pairs of shoes. She had stared at me as if I was insane when I had given her the things I had purchased.

"You know, I am very much capable of riding my own horse.", Julie grumbled, as I lifted her on the animal's back, seating myself behind her and taking the reins.

"I'm sure you are.", I answered. "But it's still safer this way."

She sighed, but did not argue any further, for which I was quite thankful.

Following her instructions, we soon left the town and galloped on a dusty street, which lead to a nearby village. Shortly before reaching it, we left the main street and followed a nearly invisible path to her home.

With every second we came closer, her excitement seemed to grow, her eyes shining and a smile lighting up her face.

I soon realised that something was wrong.

After leaving the main street, I had noticed fresh tracks of at least eight horses on the dusty ground, leading in both directions. Additionally, there was a faint smell of smoke in the air, and it strengthened with every second we came closer.

Something was entirely wrong. Everything inside of me screamed trap but I chose to ignore it. For her sake.

The fire still wasn't out when we reached what was left of the farm.

The house and the stables were burned down to the ground, with only a few charred planks and beams standing, some still burning. The air was filled with black smoke and the ground around the buildings was blackened by fire.

But the worst were the three burned, human-shaped figures, which had been tied to beams, two of them still standing while the third one, smaller than the other two, had fallen to the ground as they burned, their arms still held in the position in which they had died, abducted in an awkward angle.

Julie was off the horse before I could stop her, running towards what remained of her home, desperately screaming for her family. She collapsed a few feet away from the three charred corpses, covering her face with her arms and screamed, while tears ran down her cheeks.

I dismounted the horse and checked the surroundings for any sign of advancing horses, but we were alone in this place of death.

Julie was on the ground, curled up in a ball. She had stopped screaming, but was now shaken with sobs. I crouched next to her and gently pulled her into a tight embrace, stroking her hair.

The same thing had happened to me long ago, when the mercenaries had attacked my home, killed my father and abducted my sister. Her life would never be the same again.

"I'm so sorry, Julie. I'm so terribly sorry."

She clawed her fingers into the fabric of my shirt and pressed her face against my chest, as if she never wanted to see the world again.

"We'll bury them. Properly.", I promised.

Her voice was shaky and barely audible, but it was filled with anger.

"What for? Their dead. Burying them won't bring them back to life."

Her grip on my shirt loosened, she pulled back, her face red and eyes swollen, but she had stopped crying and seemed determined to appear strong, even though her whole world was shattered into billions of pieces, each one of them a shard of glass cutting into her heart.

"Thank you for your help, Haytham.", she whispered, tossing a last glance at what was left of her home and family, and started walking the way back with small, firm steps.

"Wait!", I called after her, quickly catching up to her and stepping into her way, forcing her to stop. "What will you do now?"

Julie merely shrugged, her cheeks were still wet, but her eyes were empty and dull.

"Do you have any relatives you could stay with?", I tried again.

"No one I know of. But I can take care of myself."

I didn't know what exactly it was, what made me say the following words, maybe it was that she reminded me of myself and the loss I had suffered. Maybe I also didn't want to repeat the same mistake my father had made with Jenny.

"Listen.", I said carefully. "If you want to, come with us. To the colonies. Or England, if you prefer. You have proven yourself a more than capable member of our little association."

 _With a bit of training, you will become a proper Templar, too._

After a long moment of silence, in which she just stared into my eyes, looking for a trace of betrayal, she spoke.

"Come with you as what? Your daughter?"

She almost spit out the last word.

"I believe 'apprentice' would be more fitting."

That seemed to work.

"Will you teach me how to fight?"

"That and more."

"Why are you doing this?"

The question was very straightforward, considering that not even I myself was certain why I offered her something I hadn't offered anyone yet.

"Because I know how you feel. I also lost my parents in an ambush when I was young."

Julie glanced over her shoulder, sun reflections dancing in her hair.

She had nothing left here.

"Alright.", she said very quietly. "Take me far away from here."

(*sequence one completed* ;D)

* * *

As soon as we reached Boston, Julie's training begun.

I spent the first week introducing her to both the city and the other members of our rite, who all seemed to be quite startled of my sudden whim taking in apprentices, especially female apprentices, but warmly welcomed her nevertheless. Especially Hickey seemed unusually delighted with her presence, as he actually chose to attend our meetings more often than ever before.

This behaviour of his, even though he had been nothing but kind to her so far, still was something I found rather unsettling.

There was much she had to learn. Apart from our daily training in riding, fighting and shooting she had other supervisors, receiving lessons in both reading and writing, calculations, history, navigation and the thing she never missed complaining about: etiquette.

From time to time, when they had a moment to spare, the others would come by and acquaint her to some of their individual skills, William mostly telling her about his journeys and his experience with the natives and other cultures he had encountered, Benjamin tutoring her in medical matters, John in strategy and tactics and Thomas in the fine art of cheating in a large number of board games, together with how to be an inveterate drunkard.

Even Charles, who seemed to be the least fond of her, sometimes taught her something about politics, or a few chords on the piano. To my satisfaction, she always was hard at work and therefore advanced with great strides and success.

Julie herself seemed to thrive with every passing second, her beauty unfolding like a budding flower kissed by sunlight.

Her hair was now long and thick, flowing down her back in a waterfall of light brown waves, though she rarely had it open, usually wearing it in either a ponytail, or a long braid. Her figure had changed significantly, experiencing a burst of growth in the first few months after her arrival, she was now at a stately height of 5 feet and 10 inches, towering over most of Boston's girls her age. A few months of training and three meals a day had covered her once clearly visible bones with a healthy layer of muscles and fat, although she still was too thin to be considered "of a proper statue" by most men, which she couldn't have cared less about.

She was blessed with a pair of delicate lips, full and red, and two honey brown eyes, which were surrounded with a ring of dark and long lashes, at which she had developed a habit of pulling when she was bored.

All in all Julie had become so beautiful that I started worrying about men distracting her from her duties, something that was proven unnecessary, as she never showed any signs of interest in the opposite gender.

As time passed and her skills seemed to improve daily, I found her sitting at the piano one evening in July, preoccupied in in thoughts, not really paying any attention to what she was playing, resulting into an incoherent succession of non-harmonic tones.

I sat down next to her and handed her an apple I had taken from the kitchen.

She jolted in surprise, being so absent-minded, that she had not noticed me beside her.

"Oh. Thank you, Haytham.", she said, taking the apple I offered her.

At a certain point, Julie had decided to only call me by my first name in private, addressing me as 'Master Kenway' in public and usually as either 'Grand Master' or just 'sir' at official Templar meetings.

"So what are you composing here?", I asked her, waving a hand at the piano.

Her eyes followed my gesture, looking at the instrument for a few seconds.

"Absolutely nothing. I was just messing about. Didn't even realise I was playing."

"Well.", I answered, shifting on the uncomfortable wooden stool. "How's etiquette going?"

She sighed and adapted an exaggerated, posh accent together with a very high-pitched, hysterical voice, faintly resembling her teacher's, Mr. Evansbury: "No, no, _no! Julie no_! You cannot do that! Left foot! Left! The other left, woman! How are you ever going to survive a ball as clumsy as this! No! What are you doing!? The _man leads_ , for Christ's sake! You cannot just waltz around how you please! And don't make such a frown, little Missy!"

I laughed, shaking my head at that horribly inaccurate imitation.

"He means well, you know that. Besides, you're good at fighting and that's nothing more than a slightly more brutal way of dancing, you also have to use your feet."

Julie nodded, lost in thoughts.

"But that's not what's bothering you, is it? Spit it out."

She took a bite of the apple, probably to gain a few more seconds in which she didn't have to answer me. After she chewed for about half a minute, she finally said: "It's nothing of great importance, to be honest it's pretty trivial. But... It's just... I went to the market today. And there was this gentleman..."

Now I was in my full alarm mode, my whole body tensing up.

"...and he asked me for my full name.", Julie continued, unaware of my sudden uncomfortableness. "Anyway, the point is, I did not know. I cannot remember my last name. I tried, really. But it's as if it was erased from my memory."

Relieved that it didn't turn out as I expected, I relaxed and smiled vaguely. "Well, if that is so, you are being granted a luxury not many people are: to choose. If you wish to, we can get you a second hand name tomorrow after your training. I know just the right place for such matters."

That offer surprised her.

"And where would that magical place be?"

I took her to the cemetery.

After some strolling around the tombstones, she said: "Martin is good."

"Why Martin?"

"I don't know. I suppose I like the sound of it. Julie Martin. Miss Martin. Lady Martin! Also, it's a bird and I like that."

"You do realise you would have to marry to be officially titled a Lady. And you would most likely take your husband's name?", I remarked, smirking.

"Well, if so, then I will have to find a Lord named Martin to marry.", she shot back.

I merely shrugged, Martin was a rather common name, I had hoped for something more extraordinary, but it was her choice and I accepted it.

She hesitated, tilting her head as if she was bothered by something.

"What is it?", I asked, hoping for a change of mind concerning the name.

"I feel like I'm stealing it. It's uniqueness."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"Do you have any idea of _how many people's_ last name is Martin?"

"Really?"

"But if you go by popularity, Julie, I would recommend 'Smith'."

Ignoring my commentary, she now was reassured, a smile dancing on her lips. "Julianne Martin! That's a name accompanied by fanfares, my dear mentor."

"I'm sure one day it will be. Now come, you have lessons to attend, my dear Miss Martin."

Three years after I took her under my wings, we officially accepted her into our fold, the last step in becoming a full member of our rite and a Templar Knight.

In the very moment I slipped Reginald Birch's old ring onto her finger, I knew that offering her a new life in the order had been the right choice.

Julie was going to be an asset against all our enemies and I very much intended using her when the right time had come, bringing the Templar Order back to its old glory.


	3. Chapter 2

**Please don't be fooled by my daily updates, that's just because I have already written these chapters beforehand and am too impatient to not put them up here asap.**

 **Actually, this one is the last one of those, as everything else I have are just fragments from way further down the road. So I dunno how long it will take for me to update again, might be tomorrow, might as well be in a few days, as I'm still on my holiday and use every possible opportunity to procrastinate any sort of schoolwork.**

 **Another POV change here, but it's the last one in a really long time, promise!**

* * *

1760, Arctic Ocean

ᎫUℒłE

The air is so cold, I'm actually surprised I can still feel my toes.

I let my gaze wander over the open icy desert before me, looking for any sign of... Well, anyone, but preferably Haytham.

"You stay on the ship and wait until we're back.", he had ordered.

Because, naturally, he wouldn't go alone. But instead of taking me with him, he, of course, had chosen Shay bloody Cormac, Ex-Assassin and the Order's new prodigy, while good old Julie was left on the ship, slowly freezing to death.

Thank you very much.

I walk around the deck, to both keep off the cold and the dark thoughts my petty jealousy keeps sending me, which doesn't really work well in both cases.

Most of the crew is below deck, trying to warm up a bit, something that I don't need because I'm counting on my anger to keep me at a very nice temperature. I keep strolling from one end to the other, reaching starboard when the ground starts shaking.

It carries me off my feet, bumping onto the hard wooden floor of the ship. Cursing, I stand up again, clinging on to the railing beside me.

A few crew members have appeared on deck, from their looks awoken by the earthquake.

One rushes up to me, it's Henry, the cook.

"You alright there, Miss Julie? I'm telling you, that's god's punishment for us meddling with those temples. May he have mercy on us."

He crosses himself and tosses a worried look towards the icy desert, from which we hear thunderous sounds of breaking ice.

I watch it equally worried, but say: "That's not God. They've triggered something there. Master Kenway has only told me that those artefacts they're looking for are incredibly unstable. They need to get out of there before they're buried alive."

It doesn't take long, then I see two people storm out of the huge iceberg to my left, which appears to be the entry to the temple. The first men doesn't stop when he exits the berg, he continues charging in the direction to my right, running across my field of vision. The other man quickly follows him, close on the fleeing man's heels. That man is, as I can figure out from this distance, to my relief: Haytham Kenway, the human being I have been silently cursing for the last hour; chasing a hooded man, probably one of the Assassins we've been tracking for weeks.

I let him run, my eyes riveting back to the iceberg, which is now completely collapsing. In one of the upper holes in it, I detect two small figures, seemingly trying to escape the imploding building. For a second, they appear to have succeeded, then the platform they're standing on breaks down, taking the two people with it and disappearing from my focus.

Ah, so Cormac probably didn't make it. Something I don't find overly sad.

I start pulling at my eyelashes, not sure what to do now. On one hand, Haytham might need my help, but on the other, he explicitly told me to stay on the ship.

Well, but at that time he still was accompanied. With Cormac gone, he's on his own.

Determined to be at least a bit useful, I take a rope and swing myself off the deck, releasing it as my feet touch the icy ground.

I start walking towards the direction I saw the two men last, turning slightly right.

And stop after a hundred feet.

It was a direct order.

And I'm currently disobeying it.

Indecisively, I turn it in in my mind, until the decision is taken away from me.

Someone has appeared in the snowy area in front of me and is quickly coming closer.

When that someone reaches me, he tosses me a confused look.

"Where is he?", Shay Cormac asks me, ignoring my baffled expression.

"I... Uh... Haytham?", I answer in the most intelligent way possible, completely forgetting to call him Master Kenway, still staring at Shay as if he was a ghost.

He nods, slightly out of breath.

All I manage to do is point in the direction I saw the two men running to.

Shay promptly takes off again, leaving me in a state of complete astonishment.

How on earth did he survive that fall?

I stand there wondering for at least five more minutes until the report of a gun yanks me out of my thoughts.

Without considering it any further, I race off, following the now very loud male voices, which sound over the frozen area.

When I reach them, I'm greeted by a very odd situation: Haytham, his gun still in his hand and dapper as ever, is standing opposite to Shay, who's talking to the Assassin, now with his hood down, and apparently alive.

He has a bullet in his leg.

That's rather unusual. Haytham usually never misses a chance to eliminate his enemies _for good._

Or to flick me one of those overly annoyed glances, like he does now.

"I told... No, I _ordered_ for you to stay on the ship! Can you not, for once, simply do as I ask?"

I straighten my back. "To my defence, I DID stay on the ship, until things seemed to get out of control."

"Things are perfectly under control, as you can see. No further help is acquired."

"Well, good then. Although, from my understanding, triggering an earthquake does not equal having everything under control, but that's just me."

Haytham holds my gaze for a few more seconds and then turns to Shay, who has been silently observing the scene with slightly furrowed eyebrows.

"Shay, this is Julie, my apprentice. She is a good student but has very little discipline on the open field, I'm afraid."

Shay just grants me a short nod, and somehow makes me feel like a goofy little child.

"Yes, little discipline is a very common phenomenon with apprentices, I have experienced.", adds the third man now, who, until that point, had only silently examined his wounded leg. He shoots Shay a glance, who immediately adopts a very defensive expression.

I have no idea what's happening.

"Anyway, let's head back.", Haytham quickly supposes, feeling the tension between the two other man rising with every second. "We have much to discuss."

On the way back, the two men walk ahead, with me tagging along behind them like a lost dog. I can't make out what they're talking about, as they seem to be very careful not to let me hear anything of their muttered conversation.

My anger grows with every passing second.

We soon reach the ship, where we're greeted by the crew, who all voice their discontent about the cold and the earthquake by talking all at once.

Haytham, in his usual straightforward way, silences them all with one single stern glance, ordering them to prepare the ship to set sail.

Shay leaves for his own ship, which is anchoring close by, and therefore brings Haytham's attention back to me, something which, on second thought, really isn't that much of a good thing.

"Julie.", he says, eyebrows furrowed. "You need to learn that following orders is as crucial in matters of survival as mere skills. How shall I ever bear the responsibility to charge you with a mission of your own, if I cannot be fully certain that you will do as I told you without any sorts of deviations or conditions whatsoever."

I bite back my answer, staring down at my feet rather than into his eyes.

He sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb.

"I fear you're growing arrogance is slowly getting the better of you. Take care of that, Julie, it can be one's greatest weakness."

He turns around without granting me a second glance and marches off to speak with the Captain, leaving me behind both crestfallen and filled with rage.

Following my sudden urge to be alone, I quickly make my way down to the main deck, passing by a few crew members, who, now that we're finally leaving, seem to be of better spirits than before.

On my way down, I grab one of the loose ropes, which are neatly stored all around the ship, ready to be used should any imminent danger occur, namely the sudden arctic storms that are not unusual in these climes, or the sometimes too heavy swell on the high seas. I wrap it around my shoulders and cross the deck to the main mast, where I stop and double-check on the rope, before I swiftly grab one of the nets attached to it and start climbing upwards, heading for the crow's nest, which is located about 50 yards above the main deck.

With every foot I ascend higher, the grip around my lungs loosens. I breathe in the fresh but cold arctic air and feel freer than I ever could on that blasted ship beneath me.

When I reach the nest, I haul myself on the platform, tying the rope first around my torso, and then the mast as well, securing it with a "Rolling Hitch", a boating knot my navigation teacher, Sir. Harry Knox, had taught me, an old, bearded Scottish sailor, who may not have been the most understanding among my tutors, but certainly taught me more useful things in an hour, than Mr Evansbury had altogether.

I lean my back against the wood, closing my eyes for a second and blending out the muffled voices below me. They all seem far away now, as far as the ground is for a bird in the air. The thought makes me smile. I had always wished I'd been born a bird, always having the option of flying away once a certain place would displease me. That's why I had chosen Martin as my last name, I thought it fitting.

Unfortunately, I'm not high enough to forget the vast amount of water around me, the sea reaching to the horizon in front, left and right of me, with only the one behind me being concealed by the gigantic icebergs we are leaving behind us, as the Brigg is slowly picking up some pace.

Sighing, I open my eyes again and observe my surroundings, as the Crow's Nest offers a great view of the scenery around me; which, again, is mostly water.

If the thought of it didn't cause me such discomfort, I might have actually enjoyed the view, the water and the ice reflecting the evening sun's light, the sound of the waves and the cries of the few seagulls that circle around the vessel, as if escorting us out of the safe shore, just to leave once we reached the open, wayward sea.

I truly hate sailing, but mostly keep it to myself. Nothing in heaven or hell would persuade me to say a word to anyone, especially Haytham, who regards any kind of unnecessary fear as a weakness, and every resulting weakness as a personal insult.

About two miles to my right, another ship, significantly smaller in size, has left the shore, presumably Cormac's vessel, named after an Irish or Celtic queen, or goddess, or both; with an Irish or Celtic name I tend to forget. A lot.

I take my spyglass out of my coat's inside pocket and focus it on the smaller ship. Through the lens, I can make out several small figures rushing around the deck, seemingly in a hurry to ready the ship for the long journey back to America. On the quarterdeck, Cormac has seized the wheel, comfortably guiding his vessel with only one hand on it, while apparently talking to his Quartermaster beside him, a fellow Templar in his fifties, who always wore a wide-brimmed hat, and whom I only had briefly encountered, never catching his name.

The tension from before has evidently left Cormac, as he now, back on his own ship, seems way more relaxed, his whole posture far looser than when he had left us.

I soon grow bored of observing them and return to my silent thoughts. The anger from before is still there but has considerably decreased, leaving me nothing but exhausted.

Still, I heard the disappointment in Haytham's voice and I know that it will take time to restore his trust in me. On one hand, I consider his reaction more than exaggerated, on the other; I see his point, although I would never openly admit it to him.

Through half-closed eyelids, I watch the sun descend to the horizon, painting the sky and the water in orange and red. Even I, terrified of deep waters, must admit the beauty of it, the water reflecting every single beam of light, causing the whole scene to look even more otherworldly.

In a month or so, when we reach Boston, I will work even harder than usually, so that maybe Haytham decides to finally grant me some action beyond the Order's training establishment, maybe even deciding to assign me to a smaller mission of my own, or permitting me to join him in one of his, or another member's.

In an attempt to shield myself from the cold wind, I wrap my coat, usually more than sufficient on that matter, even tighter around me. Sighing, I try to picture the cosy Templar quarters at the Green Dragon Tavern, where there is always a fire to warm you up and a comfortable bed to rest in, as well as the company of fellow members of our rite. I miss them: William with his endless supply of stories, never missing out on telling me one or two on his visits; Thomas and his never-ending mockery of basically everything and everyone in the world, the tricks he taught me and the pub songs that will haunt me until my very end; Benjamin and his all-embracing knowledge of medicine and cures of all kind; John, who once a few years ago had brought me a bunch of tin soldiers to demonstrate me the very severity of warfare in an unmatchable afternoon in August, which ended in my unconditional surrender, after he had slain half of my troops. Even Charles I missed, of whom I had been afraid for a very long time, always regarding me with a more or less disdainful gaze, until he had all of sudden decided it was time to teach me a bit of politics, together with some simple songs on the piano, so I could "Show off a bit, when someone asked me about it at some posh ball or alike." He granted me a great insight into the political uproars of our time and his personal views and opinions, something I considered very valuable, as he himself had made it to a General, fighting in many campaigns as well as in the present war.

A cold blast of air nearly blows me off the edge, filling the ship's sails.

Only a month and I'm back home.

I'll probably catch a cold up here.

Only a month.


	4. Chapter 3

**Okay, I know it's been a while, but to my defense, school has started again and I don't have much time to write anymore, considering that my free time apparently consists of studying and homework now.**

 **Anyway, I was planning on uploading a very long chapter somewhere in the next few weeks, but then decided to split it into two separate chapters instead. So here is the first one, enjoy, and please don't forget to leave a review or two ;)**

* * *

Nine months later my wish is being fulfilled.

"Julie, might I have a word?" Haytham asks me one sunny day in July, shortly after my 19th birthday, approaching me while I'm practising throwing daggers at a straw doll, approximately thirty yards away from me.

"Sure.", I answer, immediately cancelling my training, collecting the knives and following him out of the broad courtyard into the main hall of our new headquarters at Fort George. We had moved to New York a few weeks ago, as Haytham had decided that, on second thought, a tavern wasn't the most appropriate place for our exponentially growing Order. I hadn't been too happy about it, as I loved Boston with its brick buildings and narrow streets, as well as the Green Dragon, which had become something like a home to me but had decided that voicing my complaints wouldn't have accomplished much. The only one who was truly unhappy, and did not miss to complain about it, was Thomas Hickey, who could "not imagine any be'er place for leadin' a company than a bloody pub". Haytham had silenced him with the mere assurance that all of his desires could just as well be satisfied in New York, even to a greater range than what Boston had to offer. That seemed to work.

Fort George offered not only much more space than our previous headquarters, but also a vast amount of training ground, as well as gardens as huge as the palace I had served in.

Many people went in and out there on a daily basis, most of them I hadn't seen before. But they were all more or less members of our rite: allies, spies, tutors, mercenaries, contact men and business partners. They mostly ignored me, so I usually kept to myself.

We now passed a few of those men and women when traversing the main hall, heading for the gardens. Every one of them respectfully greeted Haytham and some even gave me a short nod, acknowledging my presence.

Arriving in the gardens, Haytham slows down a bit, allowing me to catch up with him.

"Do you know Lord Canterbury, Julie?"

I shake my head in response. "Never heard of him before."

We stroll along the blooming bushes in silence, with Haytham leading me to a group of cypresses far away from the building and off-path, first ensuring that we're alone, before finally resuming our conversation.

"He's one of our allies down in North Carolina. Has an estate there. British inheritance, obviously. Anyway, he is one of our main negotiators with not only Great Britain itself, but also the British rite there, who haven't been that pleased with me since that incident with Reginald."

" _Incident."_ , I repeat with an amused smile.

"Lately.", he continues without paying me any attention. "I can't help but start to sincerely doubt his allegiance to our Order and cause. The information we have received from him in the past few months is not only vague but also not entirely true, from what we have gathered of various other informants. His misinformation caused the failure of three of our missions and the deaths of some good men."

He falls silent and starts walking again.

After some time of following him through the gardens, I ask the substantial question: "What do I have to do with all of that?"

With a sigh, he stops again, turning to face me entirely, and staring at me for a while, until he finally starts speaking again.

"What I want of you is to make use of not only your skills but of your anonymity in the Order itself. I want you to infiltrate the Canterbury estate, find out what he's up to, why and with whom. I want you to report to me _weekly,_ understood? There are not many people that I find worthy of my trust in this Order, and you can call yourself lucky to be one of those few which I _do_ trust. You have the advantage of not being overly known within our rite, so you have a fair chance of sneaking up on him unbeknown to any other than the few members privy to it. But Julie, just to be clear, your task is to observe, not to act. Do you find yourself capable of managing that?"

"Yes.", I answer without hesitation, struggling to hide my excitement.

"Good.", he says, a small but proud smile on his face. "You'll sail at sunrise. Shay will bring you to North Carolina and explain all the details on the way. May the Father of Understanding guide you, sister."

Not even the prospect of Shay instructing me on _my_ mission can spoil my mood that evening. Some of my teachers come by, to wish me luck or give me some last advice, while I eagerly pack the few things I'm allowed to take with me. I take off my Templar ring and carefully place it in a secret cavity under a loose floor tile I had discovered when arriving in New York. The only permitted weapons are my two daggers, which I can strap around my thighs, the rest I store in the armoire in my room.

No sleep finds me that night, the excitement being too strong, so I spend the night picturing myself accomplishing the mission and therefore to fully gain the Order's respect and acknowledgement. I also try to imagine how they will smuggle me inside and how I will get to the required information, but the lack of details concerning my mission doesn't really make anything like forming a plan possible.

About an hour before my department, I rise and quickly get ready, dressing in the plain clothes that had been brought to me by an associate, a simple blouse, a light brown skirt and to my distress, a bodice, at which I grimace, generally despising dresses and everything alike, finding them not only uncomfortable but also enormously impractical. Not even my leather boots I'm allowed to keep, their replacement consisting of a pair of classic flat working class shoes.

Ten minutes later Anette, my part-time maid, rushes in without knocking, to do my hair.

She braids it back and pins it up around my head, fixing it with a few pins and a bonnet.

"How do I look?" I ask her with a wink, swinging around a few times for her to see me from all perspectives.

"Like a common servant, miss.", she answers truthfully. "But still very pretty nevertheless."

Haytham is waiting next to the coach, greeting me with a satisfied nod. "You look appropriate."

"I'll just take that as a compliment." I reply, smirking as I throw my bag on the back seat.

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous, to be honest. A bit anxious, too."

"That's good.", he merely says, closing the coach door behind me. "You can do this, Jules. I'm certain of it, so don't disappoint me, alright?"

"Yes, sir!"

I mockingly salute.

"Best of luck to you, then. Although I don't think you'll need it. You're ready"

Haytham takes a few steps back, giving the driver the sign to go.

As I look back through the small coach window, his figure in the distance becomes smaller and smaller, until we turn around a curve and he disappears from my sight.

I would later remember that last sight of him, and the sudden sadness that overcame me in that moment.

The coach arrives at the harbour at sunrise, as planned. And as planned, Shay awaits me there. "Good morning.", he says as he opens the coach door. "Are you ready?"

"I hope so.", I answer, my nervousness now gnawing on my inside.

He escorts me through the harbour, which even at this early hour is already bustling with life. Seagulls, hoping for a chance to steal themselves something to eat and filling the air with their high-pitched cries; merchants, readying their market stalls; sailors, who are either returning to their ships or have only just arrived; even a few tired looking citizens, doing some morning shopping for their superiors or their families.

Shay leads me through the crowd to the docks, where I immediately recognise his ship, the…

"May I proudly present you my humble vessel, the Morrigan." Shay exclaims with an exaggerated gesture towards the ship and a smug smile on his face.

 _Morrigan! Who even remembers such a name?_

I hide my discomfort with boarding yet another ship as best as I can, avoiding to peer over the railing and being exposed to the endless waves beneath me.

On board, we're greeted by a few crew members, among them the Templar with the wide-brimmed hat.

"Top of the morning, Gist. That's the lass we'll be bringing down to North Carolina."

"Julie Martin.", I quickly say, taking his outstretched hand.

"Christopher Gist, more than pleased to make the acquaintance of such a lovely young lady. Welcome aboard!"

He winks at me.

"Alright lads.", Shay shouts. "We're on a tight schedule, so let's get going."

I watch them ready the ship for departure, releasing the ropes and adjusting the sails.

Thirty minutes later, we have left New York's harbour behind us, heading for the open sea.

My discomfort grows with every second, I yearn for the crow's nest, which always grants me at least a bit of a feeling of safety, but don't ask as everyone is too busy with their work right now, something I would rather not interfere with.

Instead, I sit down in a corner on the quarterdeck, carefully adjusting my skirt, and watch as the men professionally pursue their daily work.

"Hey, lass.", Shay calls over from the wheel after some time has passed. "Heard you still need some information concerning your… business there?"

I nod and quickly get on my feet, standing there for a second to regain my balance.

"Alright.", he says after I take the place to his left. "Here's the plan. We'll be getting you inside as a maid, who only just started working there. An orphan, in fact. Good outfit, by the way."

My only response is a soft grunt.

"Anyway.", he continues seamlessly. "You'll be working there for quite some time, use your free time to explore the property as much as you can, obviously a maid's access is restricted, so better stay low than risking anything, but it's always good to have an escape route or two, aye?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

"We have a lad there, working in the stables or so. He's wearing a red ribbon around his neck but will make himself clearly distinguishable from the _actual_ servants for you. Has a passphrase or so. You'll see there. So that's to whom you deliver your reports, understand?"

 _Yes, I'm not stupid, you idiot._

"Yep."

"Good. We've got a hammock ready for you below deck if you're tired. Just ask any member of the crew, they'll show you. We'll reach North Carolina in about two days, so I'd highly recommend catching up on some sleep. Not much to do for you up here anyway. Any questions?"

"Yes, one actually. Might I borrow your spyglass? I like to see my surroundings, and wasn't allowed to bring my own."

Shay seems surprised but hands it to me nevertheless.

I thank him and make my way down to the main deck, grabbing one of the not-so-neatly stored ropes lying around the deck.

"Hey, Miss, take care of yourself there." one sailor warns me, as I start climbing up the mast.

"Don't worry!", I answer, gesturing towards the rope. "I always do that!"

After securing myself, I take the spyglass and check my surroundings. In the distance, I see the American shore, to which we are now sailing in parallel, partly hidden by the morning fog. The rest is just, as usual, the open blue sea.

I feel my body finally being able to relax, having escaped the imminent proximity to the water.

The morning sun gently warms my face, as a wave of fatigue overcomes me. Closing my eyes, I shift into a more comfortable position and lean my back against the mast.

Minutes later, I'm fast asleep.

When I wake up again, the sun has already passed her noon altitude by far, the heat pretty much roasting me up in the nest. I toss a quick glance down to the deck. Most of the sailors have taken off their coats by now, some even their shirts as well. The only two people seemingly immune to the heat are the two Templars on the Quarterdeck, Cormac and Gist. The latter is standing on the Quartermaster's position to the Captain's right, both still fully clothed and, although it's a bit hard to detect from up here, apparently fully comfortable with the temperature, not even a hint of sweat showing on their faces.

I, meanwhile, _do_ feel the heat in my thick skirt. In an attempt to cool down a bit, I pull the fabric up to my knees, hoping for an at least light breeze.

My empty stomach growls like a starving beast, I try suppressing it by clenching my abdominal muscles, but fail, not having eaten since the previous day.

Five minutes later I'm climbing down the mast, the hunger having won the battle against my wish to stay as far away from the water surface as possible.

A passing sailor directs me below deck, where the cook, a fair skinned boy in his twenties at most, is busy with preparing the supper. As he hasn't noticed me yet, I silently open another button of my blouse, pulling it a bit down. Then I advance.

"Uh… Excuse me?" I try to make my presence felt, clearing my throat.

He flinches a bit, turning around to face me, cutting knife in one hand, potato in the other.

"Oh, hello there! Sorry, didn't see you at first, you must be our passenger… Miss…?"

"Martin. But call me Julie, please."

"Pleasure. Name's Finn O'Connan, I'd shake your hand now, but don't want to get any food stains on you."

"Speaking of food." I quickly say, giving him one of my sweetest smiles and leaning a bit forward. "Any chance you could spare me a bit before supper? Haven't eaten since yesterday, and am now a bit concerned for my health, I tend to faint very easily…"

"Now." He answers, laying down the knife and the potato on a table beside him, determined to have his gaze fixed on my face, but not really succeeding. "I don't usually give in to such requests, as everyone on board should be treated as an equal and therefore being granted the very same amounts of food, but you _are_ our special guest here and it's your first day, so… here you go."

He hands me a bit of bread, some cheese and an apple.

"A thousand thanks to you, Finn!" I beam, taking the food, my hands brushing his for a second.

As far as I can see, his cheeks are slightly flushed. He clears his throat. "No worries, Julie. Enjoy."

In the moment I turn my back to him, I stop smiling, still somehow satisfied with myself. It always works.

I decide to eat in my hammock, which is easily distinguishable from the crew's ones, the sheets fresh and neatly folded. Seating myself at its foot, I force myself to eat slowly, taking my time to chew the hard bread, cheese and apple. It still is gone far too soon.

With a sigh, I lay down on the not overly comfortable surface, careful not to destroy Anette's hard work with taming my hair but not knowing anything else to do with myself than having another nap.

Surprisingly, I hadn't wasted a thought on the water surrounding me since climbing down the mast.

"Oi, Miss, supper's ready."

A bearded face is hovering over mine, making sure that I'm awake.

"Pardon?" I mumble, not really sure where I am.

"Captain told me to come and get you."

The sailor turns around and makes his way back to the front part of the ship, from which I hear loud voices and the clatter of dishes.

I quickly rise and adjust my clothes, buttoning up my shirt and straightening my skirt, before walking towards the noise.

Finn smiles when he sees me, quickly filling me a bowl of stew.

"Ey sweetheart, come sit with us, there's not much space, but I imagine we can all cuddle up a bit, can't we lads?" a slightly drunk crew member calls after me, as I head for an empty table in the back.

His companions roar with laughter, while I simply ignore them and sit down at the table, turning my back on them. The food isn't precisely good, but eatable, especially with a nearly empty stomach.

After scoffing all of the stew in five minutes, I decide to stretch my legs a bit and take a walk on deck, as all of my muscles have gone stiff due to my uncomfortable choices of places to sleep.

Surprisingly, upon ascending the stairs, I am being received by darkness, as apparently, I have slept until nightfall.

The sky is clear and full of stars, which, together with the full moon, bathe the scenery around me in an eerie white light. I start walking along the railing, keeping a fair distance to it until reaching the bow. My feet carry me forward until I'm standing at the railing, my hands clutching the wood while some force makes me peer over it, looking at the moonlit waves beneath me.

While some part of me is terrified, another is almost drawn to the dark water, urging me to let go and embrace it.

"You're not thinking of jumping, are you? Because the water's colder than it looks and I'm not really up for a swim, to be perfectly honest."

I dart around. On the quarterdeck, I can detect a dark figure behind the wheel.

"Don't worry." I call over to him. "If I were to commit suicide, I'd find other means, believe me."

"I'd rather not."

Releasing the railing, I walk over to him.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" Shay remarks, tossing a quick look towards the night sky, yawning.

His face is hidden in the shadows cast by one of the sails.

I nod in agreement, now glancing at the night sky myself. The stars shine like a thousand diamonds attached to a raven black gown. The gown of the Queen of the Night, who watches over all sleeping children, my mother had always told me. As long as they are good children, of course. If not, she does not watch over you and you're exposed to all of the night's terrors creeping around in the shadows. I was terrified as a child.

Shay yawns once more.

"How long do you intend on standing here?" I ask him casually. "Until you drop with exhaustion?"

"Actually, Gist will come around to take over soon. At least I hope it's soon."

A powerful gust of wind sweeps across the sea, pulling at my clothes and filling the sails. Every single one of the wooden planks seems to creak with exhaustion, the ship itself rocking forwards and the spray, carried by the wind, wetting everything it reaches, including myself.

Shay laughs at my sound of distress.

"Cheer up, lass. The wind's actually in our favour, we might reach our destination sooner than planned, maybe even by tomorrow."

"Wonderful.", I muffle, attempting to reattach a strain of hair to the bun on my head, which by now probably looked like something had nested in it.

A figure appeared in the light-flooded opening on the deck below us, the characteristic hat giving away his identity.

"Gist! I thought you would leave me standing here until my very end!", Shay exclaims upon sighting his Quartermaster, handing over the wheel.

We quickly bid each other goodnight, Shay heading for the Captain's cabin and I to my hammock on the berth deck.

Sleep finds me soon.

We reach North Carolina the next day, the evening sun illuminating the harbour, which is smaller than New York's, but busy nevertheless.

My legs are a bit shaky as I depart the Morrigan, the harbour's firm ground appearing unstable after almost two days on a ship.

Not far away I spot a coach with a young boy on the coachman's seat, his eyes fixed on me.

"That's yours." , a voice next to me says. I turn my head, where my gaze is returned by a pair of dark brown eyes, mustering me with an unreadable expression in them.

"I suppose so. Thank you for bringing me here.", I answer.

Shay shakes his head. "There's nothing to be thankful for. You're on a mission after all."

I blow out my cheeks. "So that's it, huh?"

He tosses me a quick grin. "Don't worry, lass. I'm sure you'll make it."

"How so?"

"I just know."

The answer isn't really fully satisfactory considering my current state of complete and utter nervousness.

After just standing there for a few seconds I choose to not delay the inevitable anymore and start moving forward.

"Wish me luck.", I call back to Shay.[1]

"You don't need it."

I make my way through the crowd until I'm standing in front of the kid, who can't be older than thirteen.

"Miss Garceau, I take it?" he asks.

I nod, Shay has made me memorise my new identity until I could recite it in my sleep.

"The Ma'am is expecting you, so we'd better get going, eh?"

As we leave the harbour, taking a both steep and uneven road uphill, I toss a look back at the anchoring Morrigan, bathed in the evening's sunlight. I cannot spot Shay anywhere, we're already too far to make out any faces from this distance, but I could swear to see a wide-brimmed hat appearing in the crowd below.

* * *

[1] Everyone was expecting that Rogue catchphrase now, amiright? -A/N


	5. Chapter 4

**Okay, I know this took me an eternity, BUT IT'S 18k WORDS LONG OK NO ONE GETS TO COMPLAIN.**

 **This chapter is longer than the complete rest of my story, what is wrong with me? Actually, I did this on purpose, just didn't want to split it it's too important. But it did turn out a bit longer than I originally planned. Anyways, there is some violence and strong language in this one, and there will be tons of more violence and swearing in the next (which will take me ages again, I'm graduating in two months)**

 **Alright, just fyi, I have only read this in parts and some of it at ridiculous hours (I also write at ridiculous hours, it's 3 am), so I haven't actually checked the stuff I wrote two months ago, there may be mistakes, if you see one, inform me. You'll get a virtual cookie.**

 **MY THANKS TO _MiserableCreature_ FOR THE HELP!**

 **Also about the foreign languages spoken in this chapter, my French always was miserable and my Latin is nonexistent, all the Latin phrases are from the internet.**

 **I did some research on life in the 18th century, but only some. So not everything in here is accurate.**

 **Enough talking, enjoy this monster of a chapter and LEAVE A GODDAMN REVIEW (Thanks for the follows/favs btw)**

* * *

After about twenty minutes, the coach comes to an abrupt halt. I quickly open the door and climb out, greeted by an astonishing view.

Before me towers not a house, but a small castle, probably half as big as Fort George, the whole building representing wealth and prosperity. The entrance alone is about as high as the tower of the Old North Church in Boston, with columns supporting the weight of the majestic gabled roof. The whole building, u-shaped, seems to be built of white marble, windows symmetrically arranged on both sides, all resembling the Greek architecture.

 _Palladian_ , if I remember my lessons correctly.

Outspread before the house is a huge lawn, trees lining the broad driveway to the estate, which is a perfectly straight line, besides taking a small swing on both sides of a gigantic fountain mid-way in between the mansion and the gate.

I'm so astonished; I just stand there for a few minutes and stare, until someone audibly clears his throat behind me.

 _Her_ throat.

Next to the coach stands an elderly woman, skinny and with piercing blue eyes, scrutinising me from head to toe. She's wearing a dark grey dress with an apron tied around her waist. Her hair, pinned up in a strict knot, perfectly fits her just as strict expression.

After she has finished mustering me, she opens her mouth, her voice as sharp and harsh as I expected it to be. "You must be Miss Aurelie Garceau, yes?"

"Uh, yes." I answer reluctantly, not knowing who I'm talking to and therefore how this person should be addressed.

Her expression darkens even more.

"My name is Madam Abney, but everyone just calls me Madam here. I am the girl's supervisor, managing the household of the Canterbury estate, hence being responsible for every single maid in this house. This will soon include you. As I am your superior, I would like you to address me as Ma'am and answer with 'Yes, _Ma'am_ ' or 'No, _Ma'am_ ', when I ask you a question, is that understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" I hastily respond, already terrified of her.

"Good.", she continues, her cold eyes fixed on mine. "I will ask one of the girls to show you around a bit and introduce you to our daily routine. Come."

Without waiting for a response, she marches off in the direction of the gate, with me quickly catching up to her, not daring to let her wait for me.

"Your name is French, yes?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Tu es française? Quand est-ce que tu as parti la France, exactement?" ( _You're French? When exactly did you leave France?_ )

I'm ready for those questions, keeping a neutral expression. "Oui, Madame. Nous avons déménagé en Angleterre quand j'ai quinze ans." ( _Yes, Ma'am. We moved to England when I was fifteen years old._ )

For the first time, she seems satisfied. "Your English is quite good, I don't recognise any accent. Are your parents still alive?"

Something tells me that she already knows all the answers to those questions.

"No, Ma'am. They died of smallpox."

"And you weren't infected?"

She seems suspicious.

"No, Ma'am. I was lucky."

We walk in silence for the rest of the way, until we get closer to the front entrance, where she turns right, leading me around the building to a small wooden door, which she opens.

"This is the servant's entrance; you are only allowed to use this one, under all circumstances."

I follow her into a small room, with several doors on each wall and a long corridor out front. Madam Abney scurries through the corridor, turning left after a few meters, where she comes to a halt. We are now in a larger room with a table in its middle, at which a few chattering maids are seated. There's food stored in every shelf and hanging from the ceiling, as well as a stove in one corner of the room and a fireplace in the other. Clean and tidy kitchen utensils have been placed on the counters, neatly arranged in order of size.  
A bubbling cauldron is hanging over the fire, filling the kitchen with a delicious smell and causing my empty stomach to audibly express its dissatisfaction.  
The voices break off the moment Mrs Abney enters the room, the maids quickly jumping on their feet and respectively bowing their heads.  
"Good evening, Ma'am.", they all chorus, eyes fixed on their feet.  
"Girls, this is Aurelie Garceau, she will work here with you from now on. I trust that you do your very best to help her to accustom herself to this house and our work."  
I receive some curious glances from the maids.  
"Jane, I have some business to attend so I'll leave her to you, please make sure she receives something proper to wear, she looks like a scarecrow."  
She tosses me a quick reproving stare, at which I slightly flush, realising that she's completely right. Having worn the same clothes for nearly two days, as well as sleeping in them hasn't exactly improved my looks, same as my ruined hairstyle.  
"Go to work now, I will not tolerate any dilly-dallying, His Lordship expects his dinner at exactly 9 pm."  
With these words, she, not without sending us all another one of her deeply sour glances, turns on her heel and exits the kitchen, closing the door behind her.  
An awkward silence fills the room for a moment, until a tiny blonde maid exhales loudly, rolling her eyes.  
"It's not like we were ever late or so, why does she always think it necessary to remind us of our duties, like, _I've been here for three years, he always eats at 9, thanks very much_."  
"You shouldn't talk like that, you know she has her eyes and ears everywhere.", another girl whispers, eyeing the door with a suspicious look on her face as if expecting a furious Madam to burst through the door at any second.  
The blonde just shrugs, seemingly not worried about her superior eavesdropping on them.  
My stomach, apparently displeased with being ignored, grumbles even louder.  
All attention is now focused on me, making me feel a bit uncomfortable in my wrinkled clothes and with my messed up hair.  
In a pitiful attempt to reattach the loose strands back underneath the bonnet, even more of my hair escapes it, falling on my shoulders.  
"Now what should we do with you.", the blonde, clearly the boss among the maids, asks me, although not really directing the question at me. "Ain't even capable of taking care of herself, but wants to work for Lord Canterbury, eh?"  
Before I can reply something, another maid, a bit plump, red-haired and freckled, appears on the blonde's right side, smiling a bit sheepishly.  
"Don't be mean, Miranda, I'm sure she's had a long and exhausting journey."  
She offers me her hand and I hesitantly shake it.  
"I'm Jane. The person responsible for your introduction here. If you need something, just turn to me at any time."  
"Aurelie.", I simply say, biting back the urge to introduce myself as 'Julie'.  
"Alright then." Let's get you something to eat and then show you around a bit, shall we?"  
My belly loudly agrees.

The servant quarters are rather big, but humble, as expected.  
Apart from the first lobby and the kitchen, there's a washing room, a pantry and a small larder for us, as well as two separate dormitories, one for the maids and one for the male servants, which are 'under all circumstances prohibited to be entered by the respective opposite sex'., something that Jane persists on telling me every few minutes.  
In the bedroom itself, there are twenty straw mattresses, one for each maid, an old wall cabinet, a bucket for one's need and a small basin.  
I already miss my bathtub in Fort George, along with my bed, which, compared to the uncomfortable mattresses here, seems to be made of clouds.  
Similarly uncomfortable is the daily life: we rise with the sun and work all day, minus the fifteen minutes of lunch we're granted, going to bed long after sundown.  
Jane introduces me to the female hierarchy among the servants, the cook and Madam Abney (commonly known as "the old witch"), who's the estate's housekeeper, being on top, closely followed by the maids themselves, where the chambermaids are the most highly regarded and the scullery maids the lowest.  
I start as a kitchen maid, which is somewhere in between, as I'm too old for being a scullery maid; and the cook, a woman in her mid-forties called Esmeralda is in need of further assistance.  
My duties vary from helping Esmeralda with the cooking; lighting the fireplace; washing the dishes; cleaning up the kitchen and its various utensils, which involves daily sweeping and a thorough cleaning twice a week; as well as preparing the servant's meals from the Lord's leftovers when she's too busy to do so herself. She's a bit reserved, but overall nice and pleasantly silent, besides instructing me from time to time.  
After some time in the kitchen I get used to the constant heat from the fireplace, which makes me sweat in my uncomfortable hessian clothes and beneath the mutch Jane gave me on my first day, so I develop a habit of wiping my sweaty hands on my apron, at which Esmeralda sometimes shoots me a reproving look, as she told me countless times how much she disapproves of such unhygienic behaviour in her kitchen.  
On my third day a twenty-something year old... well calling him a man would seem wrong, _boy_ being more fitting... approaches me while I'm on my way to fetch some water from a well located on the estate's backside. He's wearing a red ribbon around his neck, but I'm still not fully convinced of his affiliation.  
"Good morning.", he greets me with a wide grin on his face, while accompanying me on my way back, but not even thinking of offering me his assistance with the heavy bucket. "How's work going?"  
"Who are you?", I answer suspiciously, tightening my grip on the bucket's handle and quickening my pace.  
"Augustus Livingstone, but you can call me Gus, regarding our... association, am I right?"  
After a short consideration of punching him in the face for his clear amount of pure stupidity, I decide against it, look him in the eye without showing any kind of emotion and simply say: "I have no idea what you're talking about."  
He quickly checks our surroundings, making sure no one else is around, then his face lightens up. "Ah, yes, nearly forgot... Now... What was it again? Um... Right! _In hog signo vinces...sicut umbra...transeunt dies..._ (In this sign thou shall conquer, as the shadow pass the days)... And the other one was...uh... _veritas vos liberabit!_ (The truth shall set you free). Dunno if that's the right order, but I guess it's a matter of principle, wouldn't you agree?"  
I just stare at him disbelievingly.  
"What? I didn't come up with that! I'm actually just as surprised as you I managed to memorise those goddamned sentences. _They_ told me you would understand!"  
"I do understand. They just didn't make any particular sense."  
He merely shrugs, waving his hand at me as if to shoo away an annoying fly. "Well, Latin never does, right? Anyway, now that I've proven my identity to you, we need to make a plan about your weekly reports. I'm usually working in the stables or the gardens, but it's better if we come up with a certain meeting point at a certain time for this to work. A place and time where no one will see us or get any suspicious, obviously."  
My faith in Haytham and the whole damn Order decreases with every minute. Why they chose to send me such an idiot is beyond me.  
"Why are you asking _me_ , it's my bloody third day here! _You_ , on the other hand, have been working here for months, so why don't _you_ come up with something?"  
Rolling his eyes, he raises his hands in pretended surrender. "Fine. Behind the stables for now. Until one of us comes up with something better, alright? Each Sunday morning. See you around."  
With that he walks off, leaving me on the spot carrying a bucket full of water in both hands, and a rather annoyed expression on my face.

Weeks pass by, and I quickly accustom to the hard work, feeling as if I never left the palace, although the living conditions and the way I'm being treated are not even closely comparable to then. At night, when everyone else is sleeping, I sit in the dark pantry, armed with a small candle stump, some old paper and a quill, writing the same words to Haytham every week, about my work and how I did not have the chance to do some exploration or catch a glimpse of Lord Canterbury yet.  
I sometimes picture him sitting in his quarters at Fort George, reading my annoyingly uninformative letters, sighing and asking himself what he did wrong with me. It makes me smile, forgetting my own frustration with my slow progress. Still, every early morning I rise with new hope and new ambition born out of the same feeling that makes me want to give up and go home every night as I fall into my bed dead-tired.  
And so time passes by.  
Jane becomes something like a friend to me, while I don't really speak much with any of the others, except Esmeralda and Gus of course, the other two people which might be considered close to me. In the first week of September, Mrs. Abney grants us a free Sunday, which I use to do some long overdue exploration of the compound and as much as I can of the house, all with caution, as the Old Witch is known for always having her eyes and ears everywhere and not being all too keen to catch her maids sneaking around the Lord's private rooms.  
I return in the evening, my hair a bit ruffled and my cheeks red, finding a very strange scene in the dormitory.  
Jane is sitting on her bed, her face red and her eyes teary and swollen, crying into someone's handkerchief, while some of the other maids are assembled around her, trying to provide some comfort, while Miranda, the blonde, stands in front of the small window on the room's other side, her arms crossed and her back turned to the other girls.  
"I told you, Jane. I told you to be careful but you wouldn't listen to me and now you're in deep trouble. And I can only think of one solution for this situation."  
"No!", Jane replies, voice a bit shaky but full of determination. "That is no option."  
Mirada turns around sighing exasperatedly, opening her mouth to probably scream at the poor girl on the bed, when she hesitates. She saw me on the threshold, eying the whole scene with slightly furrowed eyebrows.  
Her eyes narrow. "For how long have you been standing there?"  
The words are cold as ice.  
"I've only just arrived.", I answer calmly, holding her gaze. "What's going on here?"  
"Nothing you should know or worry about.", she hisses, signalising the others to follow her as she leaves without another word. Jane avoids my gaze when she walks past me, eyes fixed on the floor instead. I choose not to bother her with any questions she doesn't want to answer and go to bed.  
A few days later the same girl I saw crying on her bed wakes me up even earlier than usual, a bright smile on her face.  
"Good news.", she exclaims. "Trish just told us the Lord will be having a ball in four weeks! Madam wants us all in the kitchen in about ten minutes, so get up quickly, I can't wait for the announcement!"  
I'm among the last ones entering the meeting, the whole staff already there, chattering excitedly.  
"Silence!", Madam Abney orders and the whole room immediately obeys, the heated atmosphere merely interrupted by Esmeralda's melodic voice. She's standing next to the Madam, looking as relaxed as usual.  
"We have been informed that his Lordship has decided to celebrate All Hallow's Day by holding a ball in 30 days."  
The silence breaks and everyone starts voicing their excitement by talking all at once.  
"Now.", the cook continues seamlessly. "I know it sounds all well and good at first, but remember that this means a huge amount of work must be done in a very short amount of time. Therefore the Madam and I, after having consulted with our male colleagues, have decided that it will be best to deprive you of your current duties and make everyone available for any sort of work needed at any time. Is that clear?"  
"Yes, Esmeralda." we all chorus.  
"Good.", she answers. "Then let's get to work."

From now on the chance of any spare time is next to impossible. Together, we launder every last piece of cloth located in the house, sew, dust, clean and decorate the entire mansion, go on daily shopping tours in a village nearby, maintain the gardens and pretty much organise the whole ball ourselves, all under the Madame's watchful eyes. All the new various work grants me more than a great inside to the parts of the estate I haven't discovered yet, but robs me of any opportunity to write my letters in private, often having to come up with an excuse to scrawl a few words on the paper, usually "very busy, can't write much, progress in sight", and handing them to Gus in the middle of the night, the only time we don't work.  
The list of tasks is never-ending, hence time flies by even quicker than usual. Two weeks before the ball, I rise earlier than usual, as another one of my weekly reports is due. Gus awaits me at the stables, a dark figure nearly not distinguishable from the night's black backdrop.  
I'm just about to hand him the paper and get back to bed when he surprisingly wraps his arm around my waist and starts guiding me away from our usual meeting point.  
"Augustus, what on earth?", I whisper, a tad scared of waking someone.  
"You are being followed.", he whispers back through his teeth, continuing to walk in the opposite direction of where I came from, his arm still tightly wrapped around me. "Don't turn around now, just trust me."  
I resist the urge of peering over my shoulder and do as he says, allowing him to manoeuvre me across the compound to achieve God knows what.  
After some time, the clouds part and give way to the moon, illuminating the whole property in his eerie cold light.  
Gus seems satisfied about our sudden exposure, one-half of his face now bathed in light, the other one still hidden in the dark.  
"This place is good.", he confirms as he stops right next to an old tree, despite which we'd still be clearly visible for whomever he thought had followed us.  
His eyes dart to the west side of the estate, its high walls casting long shadows onto the ground.  
"She's still there."  
"Who?", I ask, not daring to look back.  
"The Witch."  
"Abney?!"

"Yep, she followed you out of the house and right to our meeting place. You should've been more careful."  
"She's suspicious now, anyway. We'll just come up with a story."  
"No.", he says, lost in thoughts. "That won't be enough."  
I muster him with narrowed eyes, trying to read his expression.  
"Livingstone, what are you up to?"  
He seems to be torn between two thoughts, biting his lower lip, his eyes fixed on something in the distance.

"You won't like it, but it's the best plan I have for now, so, like it or not, you'll just have to play along."  
With these words, he cups my face with both of his hands and gently presses his lips on mine.  
After a few seconds of both confusion and feeling the need of punching him in the face I get what he's doing. Concealing our meetings by feigning an affair actually is a pretty smart idea, something I wouldn't have thought of if I'm perfectly honest.  
So I play along, with an imaginary sigh, wrapping my arms around his neck, while he pulls me tighter, his hands placed on my back.  
For a moment, I'm the small thirteen-year-old girl again, enviously watching the beautiful women striding through the palace, those proud Goddesses from entirely different worlds than my own.  
I wanted to be one of them, wanted to be tall and beautiful, wanted to be alongside a handsome and influential man, wanted to be cherished and loved.  
But now, in this very particular situation, I am not nearly as comfortable as I would have expected. My face is burning, my heart is pounding against my chest and I feel the urge to run away as quickly as possible. I can't even pin down why exactly I'm feeling this way, a nineteen-year-old, acting as if ten years younger.

He lets go after a few minutes, which feel like hours, glaring at me with a smirk.

"Even in these lighting conditions your face astoundingly resembles a beetroot, Miss Garceau."

I quickly turn my face away, acting as if looking for Madame Abney in the dark. She's nowhere to be seen. If she ever was there in the first place, which I'm starting to sincerely doubt.

His eyes follow mine, scanning our surroundings. "She's gone."

"Yes, she's gone," I repeat my voice more harsh than intended. "Can we go now?"

We head back in silence, constantly on our guard, although I am almost fully certain that the Madame is long gone.  
The moment we reach the servant's entrance, I nearly trip over my own feet trying to get away from him as quickly as possible, but he grabs my arm, forcing me to turn around.  
"What?" I ask him with raised eyebrows, feigning confidence.  
"The letter." he simply answers, mustering me with a slightly worried look on his face.  
"Ah, yes. Nearly forgot."  
I hand it to him while hoping for the light to be too dim for him to notice my burning cheeks.  
"One more thing.", he says, after my second attempt of subtly backing away through the door.  
I sigh internally.  
"I'd recommend you to write a different kind of letter next time. And more publicly, but not too publicly. As, you know, not to be too obvious."  
For a few seconds, I just stare at him uncomprehendingly. "Augustus, what the hell are you talking about?"  
He only grins.

Even though I consider it an unnecessary precaution, I do as he asks and writes not one, but two letters the week after. One, the actual letter for Haytham, I write in my usual hiding spot, making sure no one sees me there. But the other, I write in the dormitory, while the other maids are at lunch.  
As expected, but convenient nevertheless, the door opens the moment I fold the vellum and affix the servant's seal we are permitted to use.  
"What's that?", a cool voice asks me from behind.  
I turn my head to the door, where a familiar Blonde looks at me askance, her arms crossed.  
It's Miranda.  
"A letter.", I answer in a challenging tone.  
She narrows her eyes, piercing me with her gaze.  
"And to whom exactly are you writing that letter, Aurelie?"  
I rise from my straw mattress and cross the room, stopping right in front of her, our faces only inches apart.  
She doesn't even blink, but I grant her one of my sweetest smiles.  
"That, Miranda, is none of your business."  
With these words I leave her standing there, not wasting another look back.

Two days before the ball, it's Thursday, I find three chicken feathers stuck in between two of the uneven stones the well on the mansion's side is built of. For every other servant, this would've been nothing unusual, having to pluck them off poultry almost every single day of the week. For me, it's a signal. Gus wants to meet me to collect this week's letter to Haytham.  
I take the feathers in order for him to know that I received the message, pick up the water bucket and head back to the kitchen, where I'm greeted by a fairly stressed Esmeralda. Since all general arrangements to the house and gardens are long finished, all work is now focused on preparing the mountain of food needed on Saturday.  
"Aurelie! Finally!", she exclaims, motioning for me to fill the water into the cauldron over the fire, after which I'm ordered to join three other maids in the dining room, all busy with peeling a large heap of potatoes piled up on the table.  
The constant work causes time to fly by, with the potatoes being replaced by several other vegetables and the preparation of some bread dough, along with the cleaning of the entire servant's wing, which is in a continuous state of chaos due to its promotion to the centre of all labour.  
I hardly manage to convince Esmeralda to let me go after midnight has passed, feigning a terrible headache and leaving with a slightly guilty conscience for her obvious disappointment in me.  
Once again silently cursing this whole stupid mission, I rush through the corridor towards the entrance, full of resolution to get the task done as quickly as possible, and nearly bump into a dark figure seemingly awaiting me at its end.  
My eyes only slowly become adjusted to the darkness, it takes me a few seconds to recognise the person in front of me.  
"Well, Mrs Garceau, I do wonder why and where a maid of your position would have to hurry in such secrecy and at such a late hour?"  
My heart skips a few beats as I find myself incapable of nothing else but standing there in complete and utter shock.  
"I would highly recommend you to answer me truthfully now, Aurelie.", Madame Abney says in an alarmingly calm tone.  
"I... Uh... Just had to go and get some fresh air after this long day of work, that's all.", I answer, failing at making my voice sound both secure and believable.  
Abney smiles, which probably is the scariest thing she could have done in this particular situation.  
"Search her."  
Two soldiers, probably belonging to the Lord's guard, appear in the entrance's threshold behind her, one of them carrying a torch. They drag me into the empty scullery and close the door behind them.  
While one of them painfully locks my arms behind my back, the other one searches me thoroughly, not sparing much thought about causing me pain or touching me inappropriately.  
He finds the letter and immediately hands it to Abney, who breaks the seal and quickly reads the few scribbled sentences, despite my protests of its content being private.  
"Interesting.", she murmurs after a moment, her eyes meeting with mine, an unreadable expression on her face. "You two may go now."  
"As you wish, Madam.", the soldier between us obeys and the other one releases his grip on me. My arms hurt and I can still feel his hands on my body, but I manage to keep a straight face.  
The Madam doesn't say anything, even after the two soldiers are gone, only eyes me from where she is standing, the letter still in her hand.  
"For how long exactly has this been going on, Aurelie?"  
"A few weeks."  
Renewed silence.  
"You are aware of the rules."  
"I am."  
"Then be careful, girl. One misstep and you might find yourself on the edge of a gaping abyss you cannot escape. Consider this a warning."  
She screws up the paper in her hands and leaves the room without a second glance, leaving me behind in my tattered dress and with my heart pounding against my chest.

"I so wish I could've seen it."  
Gus seems truly disappointed.  
We've managed to sneak away from the final preparations for the ball, sitting on a bench in the garden and enjoying our last free time before the arrival of the first guests in a few hours.  
"The letter itself or her expression after reading it?", I ask him and take a bite of an apple he stole from the kitchen.  
"Both. But more the letter itself."  
"Oh, it was perfect. I have to say I excelled myself with this one."  
He grins. "Maybe I should ask her about the exact wording."  
"I'm sure she would be more than pleased to grant you an exclusive inside look on my oh-so-very deep and passionate love for you, Livingstone."  
"I can only imagine. But the plan worked out well, she's leaving you alone now, isn't she?"  
I nod in response, taking another bite.  
"Good. What were you assigned to?"  
"Guest attendance."  
"Lucky you. Have to take care of their horses first, then I'm on kitchen duty. Can't wait.", he says with a scowl.  
"Think of the vast amount of leftovers we'll get tomorrow, more food than we've seen in months.", I mumble while turning my face towards the sun's warmth and closing my eyes with contentment.  
He stands up and stretches, rising on his toes. "And so society's outcasts feast on the Highborne's spoilage."  
I open my eyes again and sigh. "You're such a spoilsport."  
"And why exactly are you so very looking forward to serving at such lavish festivities you will take no part in?"  
"Because.", I reply, mimicking his ever-present smug smile. "That might bring me a bit closer to actually accomplishing something on my mission here, maybe even to gain some insight on our dear Lord himself."  
Gus flinches upon my words, darting an angry glance at me, while simultaneously scanning our surroundings for anyone who might have heard my allusions. "For Christ's sake, woman! Keep quiet about such things. We can never be fully certain of being alone, so stay in your role!"  
Rolling my eyes, I rise from the bench and mockingly blow him a kiss. "Why is everyone in this _business_ so paranoid? Anyway, better head back. See you later, _Darling_."  
I leave him standing there, only accompanied by a quiet "Immature.", he mumbles under his breath.

A few hours later, we're all ready at our assigned spots, wearing identical neat uniforms and waiting for the guest's arrival, ready to serve them champagne and various other beverages, all alcoholic.  
Somewhere around eight, the first Lords and Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses, Counts and Countesses and half of North Carolina's other highborn population enters the main hall; by nine all of the other rooms and the garden, decorated with an enormous amount of lamps and garlands, are also filled with chattering people, one dressed fancier than the other and all heavily equipped with jewellery of all sorts.  
"Have you ever seen so many diamonds on one person before, it's ridiculous.", one maid beside my whispers in my ear.  
I shake my head, although I have. Not long ago I might've been among those people, unintentionally putting my own wealth on display, in silent competition with all of the other privileged women. Haytham took me to a few of such festivities throughout the past few years of my initiation, for the sake of 'acquiring new contacts' as he liked to call it, and even though I never much liked them, I never considered them of such a new perspective as I do now. All the excessive pomp seems so grotesque, even preposterous now, that it strikes me as if I had been blind all those past years.  
Even the decorations we had prepared for weeks seem laughable now, all those chandeliers with their candles, all those grand bouquets of perfect white lilies placed in every corner of the room, the matching curtains, even the band playing on a balcony high above our heads appears absurd.  
None of the guests pays us servants much attention, besides demanding new drinks with a snap of their fingers, which provides me with the opportunity of observing their behaviour without actually having to participate in their conversations. I even manage to eavesdrop on a few of their talks, most of them the usual, uninteresting courteous chit-chat; until I overhear the Canterbury name in one of them.  
"...rumour about this secret council of his."  
"I don't know whether he is to be believed, but I did hear General Watkins drunkenly boasting about his membership the other day."  
"With all due respect, Sir. I find it highly unlikely for a man like General Watkins to be a member of such an elitist and serious society if it exists in the first place."  
Pretending to rearrange the glasses on my plate, I slightly turn my head towards the two men's direction, my interest in their conversation growing more and more.  
"Well, as far as I recollect, there are nine members in total, all of the noblest of houses, Canterbury included, doing God knows what at their gatherings."  
"Some of my sources even claim these meetings to be of an ungodly nature, if you understand my meaning."  
"As in… satanic?"  
"I'm afraid so."  
"I must confess, I'd still- Hey you! Girl!"  
I flinch so hard that I nearly drop my plate, the glasses sliding over it, coming dangerously close to its edge.  
"Sir?" I ask him innocently, straightening my back.  
"What are you trying to accomplish here, lingering about?"  
"Apologies, Sir, I was wondering if you might wish for another glass of champagne?"  
"No, I most certainly do not.", he answers, scrutinising me with an almost distasteful expression.  
The other one seems more propitiative. "Do you have anything else to offer, girl?"  
"Cherry Punch, Sir. Also-"  
"Cherry Punch will do, thank you."  
"Very well, Sir."  
With a bow of my head, I quickly make my way back through the crowd and to the bar in the adjacent room, ordering the punch from the responsible servant there, which happens to be Miranda. She appears to be highly stressed, a mood in which I personally wouldn't like to be in her immediate proximity for longer than necessary.  
"Aurelie! Perfect timing. Have you seen Jane?" she asks me eagerly. "It's important."  
"Sorry, haven't seen her in hours."  
She makes an annoyed noise. "If you see her, tell her to come to me, _immediately_!"  
Quickly taking the glass, I nod. "Sure."  
"No, wait. Now that you're here you might as well take her task. Kitchen needs some more firewood, go down to the hay barn and bring it to them, it's stacked in a separate room. Just enter the barn and turn left, you'll see the door. And take a lamp with you, it's pitch-dark down there."  
"Uh.", I protest. "But I need to get this drink to-"  
"No back talk! The wood is more important, I'll find someone else to take care of the bloody drink. Now go!"  
Obeying, not without a certain amount of unwillingness, I take one of the oil lamps standing around, walk out of the main hall, enter the garden and take the path leading to the stables, which I leave behind me, following another path downhill, where it really is quite dark, as no one thought about installing any lamps here. After ten minutes of walking, the illuminated house behind me pint-sized in the distance, I reach the barn, its silhouette hardly distinguishable from the starless night sky.  
Shuddering, I open the door with a squeak, narrowing my eyes in an attempt of adjusting them to the inky blackness before me. My lamp hardly sheds enough light to render the first few feet of the barn visible, leaving me standing in the entrance insecurely, not quite having the courage to step forward.  
 _Come on, Julie. Don't be such a chicken.  
_ I take a deep breath and cautiously enter the barn, the lamp's light now reaching the first bales of hay, all orderly arranged and stacked on the opposite wall.  
Doing as instructed, I turn left and reach the door Miranda told me about, carefully pressing down the handle and opening it.  
The room I'm in now is smaller than the previous one, resembling a small shed rather than a storing place belonging to someone as rich as Canterbury. I hang up the lamp on a bracket on the wall and examine the store. Logs are piled up on every wall, except the one on the door side, all in quite similar fashion to the hay bales in the other room. Just now I realise, that this must be one of the male servants' duties, as I scarcely ever see one of them near the kitchen, and always wondered what might be their area of work here.  
On the room's right are some jute bags hanging on the wall, and I take one to carry the wood in. While slowly packing the logs into it, my thoughts return to the conversation I eavesdropped on before, trying to recall its details to later write them into a new letter to Haytham. A secret society only meant for the Lord himself and eight other men of his choosing. Is it a meeting of members of the Order? Are all of them Templars like Canterbury? But if, why wouldn't Haytham tell me about it, or at least Augustus? All of those thoughts appear like pieces of a great puzzle to me, not yet fitting and forming the resulting picture.  
Too lost in thoughts, and focused on my work, I don't hear the voices until it's too late.  
"Hey, there's light in the wood storage."  
A dark, male voice.  
"Jane?" another one calls. "Come on, darling, don't be shy. I know you're in there."  
My heart pounds against my chest as I hectically search for an escape route, my only way back being the one through the hay storage, and past the two men.  
The other option, in case of an assault, would be to engage in a fight against the two, something which I cannot be sure of winning. Judging from the sound of their voices, these are grown men, perhaps heavily armed, while all I'm equipped with are the two daggers strapped around my thighs. I quickly abandon the idea, thinking of Gus' warning to stay in the role of the servant. The mission still has top priority.  
But why the sudden paranoia in the first place? These are only two men, looking for Jane. Considering that I'm not her, there should be nothing to worry about.  
I step out into the light cast by their lamps, the bag still in hand. In front of me are two broad-shouldered men in the uniform of the Lord's personal guard, both at least one head taller than me.  
"Evening, Gentlemen.", I greet them courteously. "I'm afraid Jane isn't here."  
"Well, I was told she'd be here.", the taller one says. "Where is she then?"  
"Apologies, Sir. I was sent here in her stead, as she was nowhere to be found."  
"Is that so.", he replies slowly, approaching me, lamp in hand, scrutinising me from head to toe. "Truly a shame. Might I ask your name, Miss...?"  
"Elizabeth... Hill.", I answer quickly, resisting the urge to draw back from his cold gaze.  
"Miss Hill, then. This over there is Hancock, and I'm Newt, pleasure to meet you. Mind if we call you Lizzy? We're all friends here, aren't we?"  
He's so uncomfortably close now, I can smell his awful breath.  
"Such a pity about Jane, isn't it Hancock? She's a remarkably pretty little thing. But you aren't ugly yourself, my dear Missy, and I am almost certain you and I could get along very well, don't you think? You, I believe, will be a splendid replacement as long as Jane manages to avoid us, which, let me be clear about that, never succeeds for a very long time."  
With every step he takes towards me, I take one back, until I feel the barn's wall against my back, having nowhere to retreat anymore.  
"Listen, please...", I beg, not having to feign any panic anymore, for it being real.  
But Newt doesn't seem interested in listening, as he jumps forward, presses a hand on my mouth and his body against mine, locking me in between the wall and himself, and preventing me from calling for help, which wouldn't have been very likely to succeed anyway, as we're too far away from the mansion itself to be heard by anyone but the trees around us.  
"Shtshtsht.", he says. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart. The hay's quite warm and cosy, and I'm sure we're all need of a little warmth in such a cold night, are we not? I'm happy to share, and certainly Hancock is as well."  
"Leave a bit left for me, will you?", the mentioned calls from the entrance.  
"Just keep looking out for unwanted guests, you'll get your turn."  
Newt turns his face back to me, a wicked grin on his face.  
There are tears in my eyes, I'm trapped in a nightmare I can't escape.  
He replaces his hand on my mouth with his lips, using the now free hand to force mine open. While thrusting his tongue into my mouth, his other hand reaches under my dress.  
That's the point in which my reflexes come to use. I've had enough.  
I simultaneously clench my teeth and pull up my knee, feeling both the satisfaction of tasting his blood in my mouth and the sensation of hitting him in the sensitive spot between his legs.  
The effect occurs immediately.  
He releases me at once, groaning and bending in pain.  
"You _fucking cunt_!"  
The other one, Hancock, doesn't seem to have fully realised what had happened yet, standing in the doorway open-mouthed, one hand resting on his sword's handle. I charge at him at full speed, wood bag still in hand.  
"GET HER!"  
Newt seems to have recovered, he has drawn his sword, which Hancock now also does.  
I yank the bag up, rotating around my own axis, dragging the heavy thing with me as if throwing a hammer at some sports event, just that I, instead of letting go of it, bash it against Hancock's head.  
The momentum and speed of it send both him and me off our feet, but I'm up again in a blink, now running past the soldier's motionless body and towards the barn's open gate. Just before reaching it, two arms wrap around me and something heavy hits my body, sending me to the floor once again.  
" _Got you, you little whore_.", Newt snarls, pinning me down on the floor with his body, his entire weight resting on my abdomen, while his legs press down both my arms and legs, which results in me not being able to move an inch, and him having his hands free.  
I twist and turn, struggling under his weight, although my entire body hurts and I know that he's just too strong, in an advantageous position and that I have no chance at all.  
"You're a fighter, I like that. Jane never was as troublesome as you, she just gave in. But that's boring, isn't it? A little challenge always makes the outcome more... Satisfying. Maybe I'll come visit you frequently from now on, although I highly doubt you'll ever be as wild again once I'm finished with you."  
He reaches for his belt, shifting his weight onto his legs, a chance I decide to take.  
I jolt up at once, my arms painfully twisting, and ram my head against his. The impact causes him to lose his balance and to buckle sideways. Baffled by the unexpected attack, Newt doesn't immediately act, leaving me enough time to fully toss him off me and get to my feet. Just before I manage to get away, he shoots forward and grasps my ankle, making me fall down once more, but I place a well-aimed kick against his throat, succeeding in freeing myself from his grip. Not even bothering to stand up again, I crawl towards the bag I dropped when Newt seized me, grab one of the logs that dropped out of it, spin around and slam it hard against my attacker's head.  
It doesn't knock him fully unconscious, as I hoped it would, but at least renders him paralysed for a few precious moments, arms wrapped around his head and groaning in pain.  
I get up on my feet, breathing heavily and with wobbly knees, merely standing there for a second and staring at him, log still in hand, ready to attack in an instant.  
After assuring myself of his state multiple times, I toss a quick look towards the direction I last saw Hancock, who's still motionlessly lying on the floor.  
I pick up the wood bag and stumble out of the barn into the cold night.  
The mansion's lights glow in the distance, seemingly galaxies away, especially without a lamp to light my way in the darkness. But it would've been foolish to take it with me, being as effective in remaining undetected as waving a flag and screaming _"I'm here! Come and get me!"_  
The adrenaline is gone, my whole body is sore and shaking, my head pounding with pain. I urge myself forward, ignoring it as best I can, focusing on the house's lights and casting a backwards glance from time to time, but the dark has long swallowed the building. Which is fortunate, as lights would indicate the two men following me.  
I wipe the tears off my cheeks and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, slowly and carefully, to not trip and fall in the black night, as I don't know if I'd find the strength to stand up again.  
It takes me an eternity to finally reach the estate, dragging the damn bag with me as if my life depended on it. The front yard is deserted, the guests probably inside to feast and dance.  
I walk past the main entrance and carry the wood into the servant's wing. It's warm inside, with people scurrying around in great haste, not paying me any attention.  
Well, most of all don't pay me any attention.  
"What on earth took you so long?!"  
Miranda. It always has to be her.  
I find myself incapable of speaking, I just stand there in the corridor, shaking and clutching the bag.  
She knits her brows, scrutinising my appearance. "What happened? Why are your clothes so filthy?"  
Instead of answering, I just hand her the bag and whisper: "I need to talk to Jane."  
"Well, she still hasn't shown up, as I already told you. Wait here."  
She disappears into the kitchen for a moment, probably to deliver the wood to Esmeralda.  
"Now, let's get you cleaned up, you can't go back up there looking like this. Come.", Miranda commands while shoving me into the empty washing room. She brings me a new set of clothes and a water bucket, scrubs the dirt off my skin and helps me get dressed, as my hands are still too shaky to button my blouse or tighten my skirt properly.  
I only sit there and let her do the work, just silently muttering "I need to talk to Jane." from time to time, my thoughts dancing back and forth, not really focusing on anything in particular, as past and present blend into a whirlpool of incoherent sequences of memories.  
A concubine, dressed in white silk, gliding past me like a Greek goddess; Pitcairn's tin soldiers, opposing each other on their tiny battlefield; Newt's wicked grin as he-  
"Tell me what happened.", Miranda demands.  
Pause.  
"It doesn't matter. But I need to talk to-"  
"Jane. Yes, you've made that very clear. But she's not here, I am, and you'll be explaining yourself to me now."  
I remain silent.  
Haytham, smaller and smaller in the distance as my coach drives away.  
"You're so stubborn, quit acting like a five-year-old. Did you trip in the darkness, and are now too much of a coward to admit it?"  
Her harsh words don't bother me much, all I see is the vast ocean before me, the deck beneath me and the screeching of the seagulls surrounding me. And I'm with them, I'm a bird, free and-  
A slapping sound and a sharp pain in my left cheek abruptly yank me back to the here and now.  
"Listen, I understand that you're in some kind of shock, but acting like a bloody mute won't help you!"  
It somehow helps. One hand still massaging my throbbing cheek, I reluctantly open my mouth and, although not very detailed, describe what had happened in the barn. She listens carefully and only interrupts me once or twice.  
In the following silence, she just sits there for a few minutes, frowning and kneading her fingers, on which her eyes are focused.  
"We'll talk about that tomorrow.", she then says. "For now, let's get back to work. No one will touch you there, I promise."  
The guests have gathered in the banquet hall to feast, the servants hurrying about, refilling cups and bringing in new plates, heaped with mountains of the finest delicacies, which most of the staff haven't ever seen, let alone tasted before.  
I join them, focus on my work and try to blend out the previous events as best I can. It's the first time I manage to get a good look on Canterbury himself, who is seated at the head of the table and talking to an elderly man to his right. Although already in his late forties, the Lord, with his perfectly coiffed hair, not unattractively salt and peppered with age, his dark eyes and aristocratic features, together with his graceful way of conduct, still has something provokingly appealing about himself, which does not go unnoticed, especially on the female side of his guest list.  
I don't even attempt to eavesdrop on his conversation, as it's impossible to overhear a single word in the overall noise of chatter and rattling the assembly of the nobility produce.  
The festivities continue until late at night, when the guests finally leave, their bellies filled with food and their minds heavy from wine and champagne.  
I fall into bed sometime in the morning hours, after hours of cleaning up the mess the guests had left, asleep the second I close my eyes, the last thing on my mind being Jane's empty sleeping spot beside me.  
Awoken by the clatter of dishes, I rise only a few hours later, greeted by the cheerful sight of the entire female servanthood seated at the table in the kitchen, chatting at ease and stuffing their stomachs with the banquet's ample leftovers.  
Not having eaten since nigh on twenty-four hours, I am more than happy to join them and to finally satisfy my aching belly.  
It's more food than most of us have seen in the previous couple of months, everything we had prepared so arduously, but the nobility not as much as touched.  
After even the hungriest of maids pushes her plate away with a satisfied grunt, Madame Abney, who until this point had been patiently waiting a bit offside, steps forward. "Enough now, girls. I have an announcement to make."  
The room as always immediately falls silent, all faces turned towards her agog with expectation.  
"For weeks now we have been working day and night, and we have exceeded all expectations. The festival was a tremendous success and you have all earned a little rest now. For that, I have counselled with the other supervisors, agreeing on granting you a free Saturday as a reward."  
Jubilation breaks out, some of the maids even clap or pat each other's backs.  
"His Lordship himself, our esteemed Master Canterbury, has personally ensured me of his utmost satisfaction with yesterday's celebrations. You can be more than pleased with yourselves."  
The cheering increases, I had been participating so far, but now I turn to the maid to my left, brows furrowed.  
"Is the Madame close to Lord Canterbury?", I ask her curiously.  
"What?", she answers, still preoccupied with celebration. "Oh, right. I suppose so? Not intimately, of course, but I believe he holds her in high esteem, she's of a great value as a counsellor, you see? Keeps all the business sorted."  
I nod absentmindedly, contemplating about this new piece of crucial information, trying to fit it into the great puzzle that this mission has turned out to be.  
"However.", Abney now continues, silencing the cheering without any effort. "I also have some bad news for you. Our dear friend, Jane Curtis, came to me yesterday with the decision of quitting her work at the Canterbury estate and therefore leaving us after years of shared labour and friendship. Although it pains me deeply, I had no other choice but to grant her that request, as a symbol of my respect and gratitude for her hard work and accomplishments here. She sadly had to leave very early this morning, but I am to deliver you her love and apologies for her sudden departure."  
The jubilant cries from before are now replaced by an increasing sound of whimper and protests.  
I stand up from my chair, my eyes fixed on Abney and my heart filled with rage.  
"What for? What did she quit for?", I call over to her, my voice drowning out all the other noise.  
She stares at me for a few seconds, her face blank as a sheet. "That is confidential, Mrs. Garceau, but I can assure you it were valid reasons, familistic in fact."  
"Familistic? Jane's family cast her out, I very much doubt they decided to welcome her back all out of sudden. And I find it even more doubtful that she would run off to them from one second to the next."  
"What you find doubtful or not is none of my concern, Aurelie. I will not let myself be challenged in such a way. Jane left and you will accept it, as it is not your business to delve in her private affairs. So sit down now, there is more to announce.", she answers coolly.  
"Thank you.", I say with disdain filling my voice. "But I have heard enough."  
I push back my chair and leave the kitchen without another word, feeling everyone's gazes piercing into my back.

"Don't tell me you're actually buying those cheap lies?!"  
"Calm down.", Miranda says with a very annoyed expression.  
I whirl around, pointing an accusing finger at her. "She could be dead for all we know."  
"She's not dead."  
She stares straight into my eyes, challenging me to contradict her, but I stay silent instead and sit down next to her.  
After my exit from the kitchen I rushed into the garden and to the only safe place on the entire property I know of: a group of stone benches hidden behind a small copse. I sat there, contemplating and asking myself if this was the end now. If Abney decided to throw me out, she would instantly end my mission and I'd officially be marked a constant failure.  
Not long after, Miranda surprisingly bursted through the bushes, confronted me on my stupidity and basically destroyed all the little hope I had left.  
And now we're sitting next to each other, refusing to look at one another. She prefers to blankly stare straight ahead while I keep my eyes fixed on my entangled fingers.  
In the end, it's me who breaks the silence.  
"Why? Why would Abney send her away like that."  
It takes a while until she answers, her voice tired and exhausted. "Because she was growing into a problem. Or more... what was growing inside of her."  
I stare at her in shock, not yet fully realising the full extent of her words.  
"Those two guards that assaulted you in the barn.", she continues. "They weren't actually there for you. They were awaiting her, like they had been for months. I'm not even sure when exactly it started, I just know that there were many encounters between those three, and after each and every one of them Jane would return to the quarters with tattered clothes and straw in her messy hair. Every time I would bring her to a safe place, as I have you, clean her up, wipe the blood off her legs and the tears off her face, fix her appearance and tell her to proceed with her work. Half an hour later, everything was as before, and so it went for months. No one ever noticed anything."  
My heart is pounding hard against my chest, I find difficulty to breathe. Not even now, not even after I nearly shared the same fate, I still cannot even rudimentarily imagine what hell the poor girl went through all those months. What pain there must've been hiding under that perfect facade if hers.  
"And then.", Miranda resumes her story, not paying any attention to my discomfort "And then, she got pregnant. A scandal. If anyone beyond our inner circle of friends were to find out and tell anyone, she would've been doomed. Only imagine what those two guards would've done to her, with that baby also presenting a serious problem to them. So, I again offered her my advice, for I have some experience with such situations. They're not uncommon and I have seen many different outcomes in the various households I was employed in over the years. So I told her the only and best solution to the problem, but she wouldn't listen. She insisted upon keeping the unborn child, babbling nonsense about how she could raise it in secret and on her own. Not possible, I told her, but she wouldn't listen. Of course, she realised it eventually. But instead of following my advice, she had the most insane idea. Going to the Madame and seeking her help. I tried to talk her out of it, but to no avail. Apparently, she chose to implement that plan yesterday. You can assume how successful it was."  
I sit there in complete silence, slowly raising a hand and wiping the tears off my cheeks. "This... This was known. Her situation. You and a few others knew of it and yet no one raised a hand. She was all alone with the indignity and the violence and the humiliation and the pain. And in the end, you chose to just do nothing while she was cast out into a world that will never accept her. In which she and her child won't ever find happiness."  
Miranda shrugs, remaining unaffected.  
"I did all I could, but it's kill or be killed here. Quite literally in fact. Jane chose against my advice of getting rid of the baby, and now Abney threw her out. And perhaps it's for the best, was just a matter of time anyway. Everyone is responsible for their own actions, and the consequences those actions bring with themselves."  
"She wasn't responsible for being raped, over and over again! But I just assume that is a common phenomenon here, nothing to worry about!", I hiss at her, my shock turning back into the rage from before, just stronger and hotter, burning inside of me.  
"As a matter of fact, Aurelie, it is. I don't know in which utopian household you were previously employed, but best you can do here is keep your mouth shut and cause no trouble. We _are nothing here_. We're the lowest there is. That's how things are, and if someone decides to disregard those rules, they are replaced. Because there always is someone else eager to take the job, someone more convenient. It's a fact, live with it or leave."  
Rising on her feet, she walks a few steps towards the treeline, stopping there with her back turned on me. "Beware, Aurelie. Your misbehaviour today might be your last one here. I'm not even sure the Madame would forgive such an act of insubordination if you crawled before her feet and begged for it. Perhaps you're lucky and a few strikes with her cane will satisfy her, but I'd be careful if I were you."  
She leaves without another word, while I remain on the bench with a stony face and the rage that storms inside me. And the fear. The fear of failure. Which I know is inevitable if I don't consider my next move very carefully.  
I can't go back to Abney, I can't go back to Haytham. I'm stuck between those two walls towering right and left of me. The only way I have left is forward.  
Hours pass, as I gather my thoughts, weave them to a plan like a spider around her prey. In the end, the sun is already beginning to set, I know what I'm going to do. It's risky and I'd face major consequences in case of failure, but it still is the comparatively best option I have.  
I make my way back to the mansion, but instead of taking the usual route to the servant's quarters I enter the main hall, where two guards eye me suspiciously, but let me pass nevertheless. Turning left, I climb up a winded staircase, finding myself in a long and embroidered gallery, decorated with a heavy red carpet and some huge portraits of stern-looking aristocrats, probably Canterbury's ancestors. The whole scene is bathed in the flaming light of the evening sun, appearing almost otherworldly. I stop for a moment, enjoying the view out of one of the heavily curtained windows, but then hastily cross the hallway. Before me stands yet another of the Lord's guards, blocking my way forward, namely a wide door leading into the next room.  
"Good evening, Sir.", I greet the sentinel. "I'd be most grateful if you might grant me passage."  
"What d'ya want?", he hisses at me.  
"I was allowed an audience with his Lordship. I am part of his higher labour representatives, you see."  
The guard frowns, taking a warning step towards me. I quickly withdraw a few paces.  
"I don't need your fancy talk, wasn't told about anything, so fuck off before I make you do it!"  
I sigh. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this.  
Charging at him with lightning speed, I use his unreadiness to my advantage, thrashing my fist into his nose.  
It hurts. My knuckles throb with pain, but they have bought me a few precious seconds. More than I need.  
I rush past the sunken down man, who is groaning with pain, yank open the door he was watching, and step forward.  
The room, or rather the hall I'm standing in, is well-lit by both the last rays of sunshine and about a thousand candles and oil lamps placed all over the room, evenly spread on various crystal wall lustres and a couple of chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.  
I'm so stunned by all the glistening and the sudden dazzling brightness after the rather gloomy corridor that I need a few moments until my eyes have adjusted to the new lighting conditions, only just now realising what, or rather who is standing in the middle of the hall, looking quite dazzled themselves.  
Gathered around a long oak table are several middle-aged men, all undoubtedly high-ranking officials clearly evident from their expensive and well-groomed uniforms and from the way they manage to maintain their upright posture even in surprise. One of them is the very familiar dark-haired aristocrat my entire situation is about.  
I fall on my knees. "Milord."  
"What is the meaning of this?", Canterbury asks half disgruntled, half curious. "This is a private meeting."  
"Please forgive the intrusion, Sir.", I say with my head still lowered, not daring to look at him directly. "But there is a very important subject I need to discuss with you."  
"What insolence!", one of the other men cries out in indignation.  
Canterbury ignores him and takes a few steps around the table until he's standing right in front of me. I bite my tongue and keep my eyes fixed on his shoes.  
"Stand up."  
My eyes shoot up to his face, meeting with his dark ones. For a few seconds, I'm caught in his almost hypnotising gaze, then I slowly obey, rising on my feet.  
 _He sees right through me_ , I think _. Past the layers of my disguise, past all the lies, past the whole identity of Aurelie Garceau. He sees Julie. Not Julie Martin. Julie without a name.  
I will never be able to lie to that man. Not even with the best story in the world.  
_"Who are you?"  
I'm breathing heavily. "My name is Aurelie Garceau, Sir. I'm one of your employees."  
He's taller than me and keeps staring down straight into my eyes, making me feel even smaller under his piercing gaze.  
"And what can I do for you, Miss Garceau?"  
"You can't be serious, Alex.", the eldest of the gathered men now exclaims, his small eyes nearly vanishing under his bushy white eyebrows. "This audacious maid deserves nothing but a proper beating for her behaviour, so such an impudence will never happen again!"  
The others grumble in agreement.  
"Sir.", another voice now chimes in. "If you allow me, I can take care of her."  
My heart, a moment ago beating fast, now stops in shock, my blood freezing to ice. I know that voice. Less than twenty-four hours ago, it had whispered into my ear. I will never forget the feeling of the warm, stinky breath on my skin.  
"That won't be necessary, Newt, thank you.", Canterbury says without averting his gaze from me, analysing even my slightest movement. I force myself not to give away my panic, keeping a blank face and steadying my breathing.  
"The matter is of a very delicate nature. I wouldn't recommend discussing it in front of your... Friends."  
A faint smile flashes over his face. "You have a very interesting way of expressing yourself, for a supposedly simple maid. But I have no intention on hiding secrets from my _friends_. You can speak openly, what is this matter about?"  
This wasn't part of the plan. Nothing of it. He should've been alone and easier to lie to. Now I've got no other option than improvising with the truth and hoping it to work.  
"The way this household is managed.", I simply say.  
No reaction.  
"Could you specify that?"  
"Rape."  
His eyes narrow slightly. "I see."  
Someone clears his throat behind me. It's the guard I punched. His right hand rests at his sword's handle, while the other one still tries to stop the blood stream flowing from his nose.  
It's probably broken.  
"Sir.", he snuffles. "Forgive me, Sir. This... _Impertinent_ woman attacked me in surprise, I will remove her from your presence at once, Sir!"  
He moves forward, but Canterbury raises one hand, making him stop. "Just to avoid any misunderstanding, soldier. Am I right to presume that you, a trained and full-grown man, were attacked and apparently also overcome by not only a servant, but a _female servant_ at that?"  
The man scowls, he casts me a quick glance filled with such hatred that the knot in my stomach tightens a bit. I have made more than enough enemies already. Should my plan fail, they probably wouldn't just leave me be.  
"You are assuming correctly, Sir. I... Wasn't able to foresee her sudden aggression."  
"Well, let's say someone more... Threatening wishes to enter this room. How do you intend to perform your task properly if you cannot even match a little girl?"  
I cannot evade being a _little_ annoyed about that comment, but keep my face free of emotions.  
"I'm... I'm sorry, Sir. I will be more careful from now on."  
Canterbury nods once, and then sends the sentinel away with a wave of the hand.  
"Alexander.", the old aristocrat now tries again. "I know I am not in charge of this household, but you cannot simply just allow this..."  
"I believe, Henry, that what I can and cannot do in my own house, is still my choice to make, wouldn't you agree?"  
Canterbury's voice is calm and steady but carries such authority, that his opponent doesn't dare to argue any further and stays silent, as do the others, although their opinions on the matter are clearly evident from their disapproving faces.  
"In fact, I think it best to resume this meeting another time. May I suggest the day after tomorrow, perhaps?"  
Some incoherent grumbling arises but they obey nevertheless and one by one, not without respectfully bidding Canterbury goodbye and deliberately acting as if I didn't exist, they leave the room until it's only my superior, his guards, including Newt whom I try to ignore as best I can, and I left.  
"May I ask your name?"  
"Aurelie Garceau, Sir."  
"Sit please, Miss Garceau."  
Canterbury offers me a chair and I hastily sit, staring at him the entire time. I have no idea what to say to achieve the outcome I'm striving for.  
"I... Uh... It wasn't necessary to delay your meeting, Milord. I could have easily waited outside until you had settled your affairs."  
"Those matters can wait, yours cannot. Although, I have to admit, some part of me was relieved to rid myself of those vultures for today. Anyway, let's talk about what you have come and apparently _also fought_ for to discuss with me."  
"Of course, Sir." I say, but keep staring at my fingers, struggling for the right words.  
Canterbury keeps his eyes fixed on my face and waits for a few seconds, then says. "Perhaps we should start with a few questions."  
I nod in agreement, somehow relieved.  
"First of all, this... Violation you mentioned, were you personally involved?"  
"If you mean by that if I was the one being assaulted.", my glance flashes to Newt for a split second, who stares at me with such loathing that I quickly turn back to the man sitting opposite of me. "Then no, Sir. I wasn't personally involved."  
"I see. So it's another maid in my employment this is about, I gather?"  
"The person this is about is no longer in your employment, Sir."  
He seems surprised. "I haven't been informed about any recent termination of work!"  
"I highly doubt it was a decision made out of her own free will, Sir. As a matter of fact, despite what the... Responsible authority claims, I believe she wasn't left much of a choice in the end."  
"I will have to ask you to be more precise, Miss Garceau."  
I sigh and then tell him what I can without giving away too much, leaving out names and details where I must, adding things where they fit and avoiding anything involving myself. He listens carefully, not interrupting me once.  
"It appears.", he then says after a short silence. "That I have been ridden of a chambermaid without even knowing about it."  
Turning to the guard closest to the door, he orders: "Bring Madame Abney to me immediately."  
My heart stops. I should've expected it, it was naive to think that he would instantly believe me without further evidence.  
The guard reappears soon with the Madame following close behind.  
"Milord, you have summoned me."  
She curtsies longer than needed, leaving him time to speak.  
"Yes, I wanted to talk to you."  
"How fitting, I was just going to inform you about the unfortunate loss of a maid, she chose to..."  
"No need, Mrs. Garceau here has already told me all there is to know."  
Her eyes flash to me in surprise, only know realising my presence. She immediately knows what I have told him. While usually keeping a perfectly straight face, her expression starts to crack in this extreme situation.  
"What audacity! I am deeply sorry, Milord, I did not realise that this rather troublesome maid slipped away from her work. I assure you I will keep an eye on her from now on and punish her properly for bothering you in such an unacceptable way!"  
"Oh, quite the opposite, I very much enjoyed talking to such an outspoken woman. In fact, I would like you to assign her as Margaret's and my new private chambermaid, since the rather mysterious disappearance of the last one. My wife and I will be needing a personal servant, and I believe her to be quite fitting."  
Abney looks just as puzzled as I feel. _New personal chambermaid?_  
"Personal... But... Sir!", she stutters.  
"She will take the small room where the little Lady Paddington's nursemaid was lodged when she was last visiting with her parents, next to Margaret's and my rooms. Please arrange that. And, in the future, should anything significant occur within my servantry, you will inform me of it and refrain from acting without my knowledge or permission, is that clear?"  
"Of course, Milord."  
"Very well. You are dismissed."  
She leaves without another word. Canterbury, face still expressionless, turns back to me, my baffled expression probably easier to read than a children's book.  
"You seem surprised."  
I struggle for words, nothing can describe the incredible fortune I have been blessed with. Weeks and weeks of useless attempts on finding at least something I can report to Haytham, and now this: the Lord's and Lady's private maid, continuously around them, soon a common companion to their daily lives, barely even noticed to be present.  
"I... Haven't expected this outcome, to be honest."  
"The first thing you should know about me, Miss Garceau, that sincere honesty, along with piety, loyalty, honourableness, cleanliness and punctuality are among the things I value the most about mankind, no matter the rank, name or eminence someone possesses. You have proven great courage in approaching me today, and I believe such bravery and outspokenness should be rewarded. Especially coming from someone at a young age, and especially from a woman."  
No response to his speech comes to my mind, except _well that was a rather mild punishment for laying such stress on loyalty and honour.  
_ Instead of openly voicing my thoughts on his hypocrisy, I respectfully bow my head and whisper "You have my deepest gratitude, Sir. I swear I will not make you regret this decision."  
 _Liar_ , an annoying little voice in my head teases me. _You can't trick him, he isn't one of those unsophisticated simpletons you had to deal with so far. He's a high-ranking Templar and he will realise your betrayal soon enough, and then, not even Haytham will be able to save you._

Immediately after my introduction and instruction on my new duties, a male valet, probably

the Butler, shows me my room. After months of confinement in the narrow, stuffy and dark dormitory, the small, but nevertheless well-lit and clean room, furnished with a simple wooden bed and a small plain commode of solid oak, feels like heaven to me.  
I lie down and wrap the thick sheets around my freezing body. The temperatures are dropping daily now, everyone soon expecting the first snow to herald the start of winter.  
Curled up in my warm bed, and exhausted from the events of the past few days, I soon fall into a dreamless slumber.  
A quiet noise yanks me out of my sleep, it must be hours later since the candle on the floor beside my bedside has almost completely burned down.  
 _Pop. Pop. Pop._  
It's still dark outside, but there's something tapping against my window.  
I cautiously get out of bed and walk across the room, peering through the glass into the inky night.  
 _Pop._  
I jerk back in surprise, then take another step forward and resolutely open the window, curiously sticking my head out of it.  
Cold air pours into my room, making me shiver uncontrollably in my thin nightgown. As my eyes slowly adjust to the dark, I recognise a dark shadow standing on the ground beneath my window.  
"Was about time." Gus whispers. "I was slowly running out of pebbles."  
A grin flashes over my face. "Can you climb up here?"  
"Oh, sure. It's only pitch-black and freezing, won't be a problem."  
He does if nevertheless, elegantly sliding into the room and closing the window behind himself.  
"Nice nightgown."  
I roll my eyes, wrapping my arms tighter around myself, trying to warm up a bit.  
"So.", Gus says, seating himself on the bed. "Everyone's talking about your raise, so I was wondering if the world has turned upside-down, or if there's some hidden genius buried deep under those layers of sarcasm and inbred annoyance. I also thought you might be needing this."  
He pulls out a quill, some ink and a few scrolls of parchment under his coat, as well as my two daggers, which I had left hidden under my bed in the dormitory.  
"How on earth did you get all that?"  
The familiar blades are sharp as ever, reflecting the candlelight as I run my finger around their edges. Beautiful.  
"I have my own ways of getting what I want. Now please, enlighten me about how in God's name you managed to become Canterbury's first maid in a _fucking day_!"  
"What can I say?", I answer, gesturing dramatically. "He must've acquired a liking for my charming and gentle character."  
We stay up for hours, discussing the details of my further course of action and then falling asleep next to each other, me curled up on one side of the bed, he in a sitting position on the other, his back leaned against the wall.

"Oh, Aurelie, good that you're here. I've got some documents for you to peruse, they're on my desk."  
"At once, Sir."  
I place the tray with the tea and scones on the coffee table, adding only a shot of milk and no sugar, as usual.  
Canterbury is standing by the window in his study, his mind preoccupied with the letter he's currently reading.  
Taking the documents from the desk, I turn towards the door to leave him with his studies, when he raises his voice.  
"No, stay. I want to ask you something."  
I obey, patiently waiting for him speak again.  
"Did you know that mankind as we know it now hasn't always been the most powerful race on earth? Millennials ago we were ruled and guided by powerful, godlike beings, known to us as the Isu, the Precursors or simply the First Civilisation. Some sources even claim the Isu to have created the human race itself to use it as a workforce.  
Anyway, after their extinction, the only things that remain of their legacy are the so-called Pieces of Eden, advanced precursor technology with which you can accomplish things beyond all imagination. However, most of these artefacts are highly unstable and are likely to cause severe damage if used by the wrong hands, namely inexperienced ones, only driven by greed and the thirst for power. There are a couple of semi-Isu bloodlines left, descendants of Isu-human hybrids, people with abilities sleeping inside of them, abilities some never discover."  
I stand there completely inert, listening to him carefully. It isn't unusual that he would just start telling me stories out of nowhere, something I have grown used to in the past two months after he decided to employ me as his personal maid, and apparently also secretary, as I soon found out. He somehow immediately chose to entrust me with his private correspondence, and soon also with his thoughts about anything there was, from his dissatisfaction with his dull business partners, over his dissatisfaction with his equally dull wife, to how he would like to make the world a better place if only he had the resources. He found something in me which the other people in his life lacked: a listener. Someone to talk to and someone who would answer with opinions of their own. Opinions he learned to value, as he told me weeks ago. Opinions of a like-minded person.  
"You're not really a simple maid, are you?" he had asked, making my heart stop and my blood freeze in shock.  
"You are far too smart and educated, as well as your way of articulation. Not a chance you come from a low family. I presume that you're originally high, or at least middle-class born, cast out for some scandal you've caused, perhaps an affair or something of the sort."  
I had just stared at him, completely taken aback by this change of events, while he had just smirked and said. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."  
So I had decided to let him believe that story, as it didn't matter much to me anyway, and to him even less. On the contrary, it caused him to open up even more, summoning me into his study to discuss some matter from time to time, or writing down his thoughts in journals, and later reading them to me.  
Canterbury is a libertine, always bored with the monotony of the work his position and rank ask of him.  
I begin to understand why Haytham chose him to be a member of the Order. And why he might oppose such a threat to the Grand Master.  
The Order and the Templars in general is something Canterbury never talks about, not even to me, something I emphasise in my letters to Haytham. There is nothing that might suspect him to be a traitor.  
"And what of those artefacts?" I now say just to keep the conversation alive.  
"Well, if used rightfully, they could change this wretched world into something better, perhaps a place some people would call heaven on earth."  
He pauses.  
"Now, Aurelie. Just imagine you could have one of those objects, wouldn't you use them instead of locking them away from the world as some would do?"  
I cock my head sideways, absentmindedly thinking about what he just told me and considering my answer very carefully.  
"You said these mysterious artefacts are very unstable, so I suppose the first thing I'd do wouldn't be putting them to use, but exploring their abilities and weaknesses, therefore not harming anyone before gaining enough information about their proper usage."  
Something is painfully familiar. The temples Haytham had told me about. Intersection points of large sources of energy, and so easily destroyed.  
Were those also Pieces of Eden? Created by some advanced species living hundreds of hundreds of years ago?  
"A very safe approach, I suppose."  
He seems satisfied with my vague answer. "Anyway, before I forget, I'll be having another council meeting in three days, prepare the Grand Hall for that and the guest rooms as well. You are dismissed."  
Intrigued by this, I nod again, curtsey and leave the study.  
So another one of those mysterious council meetings. This one will be the third since my promotion and perhaps the one where I will finally be able to find out what exactly happens in those hours of confinement. The last two times, the other eight members arrived late in the evening, all wearing long dark capes and hoods to cover their faces. I spied on their arrival in secret, hiding in a small lumber room located next to the entrance hall, as no one but the Lord himself is permitted outside of their chambers when such meetings occur. Even the guards are ordered to only patrol outside the house, with the exception of four members of Canterbury's personal guard, two guarding each entrance to the Grand Hall.  
Unfortunately, I did not manage to sneak into the actual gathering, as I saw no chance of accomplishing this task unseen. At least until two days ago, where I made a fantastic discovery while cleaning the Grand Hall, where the assemblies usually take place. Hidden behind a huge wall hanging depicting some great battle from three hundred years ago is a small service lift, which probably never was in use, as it's shaft leads into a room in the basement where the house's old furniture is being stored, a place which isn't even close to the kitchen and where everything is coated in the dust and spider webs resulting of years of abandonment.  
I'm not even sure anyone but me even knows about the place, but it's as if the house's architect only made it for me.  
I spend the next two and a half days doing as ordered, preparing everything for the gathering, while meanwhile also carefully forging a plan for myself. Because should I fail and someone detect me eavesdropping on my Master's secret meeting, I'd have to face serious consequences, consequences that would probably cost me my life.  
On the eve of the assembly, I retire to my room as soon as I can, waiting for the other member's arrival. Upon spotting their coaches approaching in the distance, I quickly douse my candle and start counting the passing seconds. After reaching exactly 500, my eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now, I cautiously open the door.  
The hallway before me is dark and deserted no voices audible.  
I sneak past the Lord's and Lady's chambers, down the staircase, halt.  
The entrance hall is just as desolate, so I hastily cross it, down another staircase, smaller this time, and into the basement. For days, I had been busy memorising the way through the maze of narrow junctions and corridors, going astray more than once.  
But not now, now my feet know the way, even if my eyes can't lead them.  
I soon reach the storage room right beneath the Grand Hall, open the small door of the lift and climb into it. There's the rope I had placed there three days ago, securely fastening it on the shafts upper end high above my head and therefore securing myself a quick and quiet way upwards.  
While tying one end of the rope around my waist, I clutch the other one tightly, simultaneously bracing my feet against the wall.  
I slowly pull myself upwards, inch by inch, until their voices are loud enough for me to understand.  
The wall hanging concealing me from the people in the Grand Hall is semi-translucent, allowing me to peer through its stitches and therefore seeing what's happening inside while not being seen myself.  
I fasten the rope's loose end to a hook in the wall, dangling in the air as if on a fishing rod.  
Pressing my face as close to the wall hanging as possible without actually stirring it, I watch and listen carefully.  
All seats of the long oak table are taken, four caped men on each side, Canterbury at its head. He appears to be the council's leader. And finally, although not very clearly, I can see all of their faces, as their hoods are lowered now.  
They appear to be a group of middle to elderly aged men, there is not but a single woman, though that's nothing I would've expected.  
Canterbury rises.  
"Brothers!" he exclaims with a booming voice. "Salutem et felicitatem!" ( _Salvation and fortune!_ )  
Latin, a language I had to learn in my apprenticeship. For all the misery it had caused me, I couldn't be happier to know it right now.  
"Salve, pater. Bibas, princeps optime!" the others chorus. ( _Greetings, father. Drink, finest of Lords!_ )  
The Lord raises a richly ornamented chalice to his lips. "Let's share our wine, brothers. Share it, as we share the belief that keeps driving us forward."  
Every man takes a gulp out of the chalice, eventually returning it to Canterbury.  
"I called you here today, fellow knights, for I have good and bad news alike. Our secret source within the enemy's ranks has provided us with fresh information, only undermining my greatest fears of what madness has befallen the people supposed to guide our Order into the light, and the entire human race with it. Still, in this darkest of hours, there still is _sub cruce lumen,_ and my beliefs in our cause are as strong as ever. Where some succumb to their human weakness, we will rise and take lead. Sub solis luce miserrimum esse quam umbrarum princeps esse malle _."_ ( _Rather be the most miserable under the light of the sun than the prince of shadows_ )  
While the others cheer loudly, I freeze in my hiding spot.

With this speech, Canterbury managed to wipe away all doubts I might have had before. Now I can see it clear as day:  
Knights – Order – _sub cruce lumen_ , light under the cross. He's talking about the Order, the one I'm also a part of. These people are Templars. And these councils some sort of a rebellion, a conspiracy. A conspiracy against the _people supposed to guide the Order_ , the enemy, as he called them. Against Haytham Kenway.

He knew it. He knew it from the start. That's why he sent me here.  
I steady my panicked breathing, force myself to calm down. There is nothing I can do right now, except to keep a cool head and collect as much information as possible to later write Haytham. And then, he will come and finally end this nightmare.  
The Lord waits until the cheering has settled, then continues.  
"We are ready, brothers. Everything is prepared and will soon be carried out. Our time has come. And we will rule with the ancient knowledge and possibilities our superiors would refuse us. Sacrilegia minuta puniuntur, magna in triumphis feruntur." ( _While small misdeeds are punished, great ones will be celebrated in triumph_ )  
He carries on like this for another hour, creeping into his audience's brains like a plague, infesting their thoughts, manipulating them with his grand speeches and Latin sayings. In the end, they're all at his feet, agreeing with him, ready to do whatever he tells them to, practically worshipping him as some sort of saviour of the world.  
"Ab hinc! " he cries out in the end. "Adora quod incendisti, incende quod adorasti!" ( _From now on, adore what you have burnt and burn what you have once adored!)_  
Some of the assembled men rise from their chairs in jubilation, raising their fists, shouting "Semel pro semper!" ( _Once and for all!_ )  
"The dawn of a new era, an era where the Order of the Knights Templar will arise from its ashes and take its rightful lead! And those who oppose us then will burn and join the ashes of those who do now. Viribus unitis ( _with united forces_ ), we can have the world at our feet."  
He pauses dramatically, taking the time to look each and every one of them in the eye.  
"Go now brothers, go and prepare yourself for the role you are meant to play. May the Father of Understanding guide you and always remember our cause. Salus populi suprema lex."  
Canterbury's voice is so booming, so filled with fire and rage that it even makes _me_ shiver in my hiding spot.  
Now every single man is on his feet, their left fists closed above their hearts in a gesture resembling the one Roman soldiers used to greet their superiors.  
"Salus populi suprema lex.", they repeat.  
( _May the welfare of the people be the highest of laws_.)  
They leave, one after the other, ceremonially pulling their hoods over their heads, until it's only Canterbury left, standing at the table's head completely motionless.  
I'm just about to leave myself, when another voice rises, more quiet and soothing than the Lord's.  
"You're quite the talker, Milord. They were under your spell the minute you opened your mouth."  
Some faint accent I cannot assign to a country yet.  
A figure appears on Canterbury's right, I have no idea where it came from. Judging by the sound of their voice, it's a man.  
He's also wearing a hood, but it differs to the ones of the meeting. Rather than being made of heavy black velvet, it's of a more practical, lighter material, beaked with a diamond-shaped extension at its upper front, completely drowning the man's face in shadow.  
He's wearing a long coat with a sturdy tunic beneath it, made of leather and stabilised by lightweight metal. Several pistols and knives are fastened to his belt, as well as a long and elegant sword. My glance scurries to his wrist and the hardly noticeable blades hidden beneath his sleeves.  
There's only one kind of people I know of wearing these sorts of wrist blades.  
He's an Assassin.  
"They are small-minded morons.", Canterbury answers coolly. "They'd follow any man promising them more power and prosperity. They have no imagination. No other way of looking at things but their personal gains."  
"You cannot expect everyone to be as visionary as you are. And Rome wasn't built in a day, nor by a single man. We need them to fulfil their purpose."  
"Regrettably so."  
The Assassin chuckles, taking a few steps away from the other man and pretending to study one of the portraits on the wall.  
"Now let's talk about our business. Have you found out what I asked of you?", he then suddenly continues as if talking to the painting.  
"I have. He will return to Boston in two weeks, taking the overland route rather than a ship. My source was certain about that.", Canterbury, who hasn't moved from his place at the table, is now carefully observing every little step the Assassin makes.  
 _He's frightened_.  
"Well, is that spy of yours reliable?"  
"A hundred percent."  
"Very well." The man turns around, his black eyes shining under the hood. "The land route than. The riskier option. Why isn't he going by water? It's faster anyway."  
"He has some business to attend to on the way."  
Confronted with the other man's gaze, Canterbury doesn't seem able to hold it, deciding to stare at his own fingers instead.  
"Good.", the Assassin says. "Very good, indeed. The route from New York to Boston is a dangerous one these days. The English are still at war with the French, who knows what might happen to a lonely traveller in such times eh?"  
The Lord's eyes shoot up to the other man, surprise on his face. "So soon?"  
"If I'm presented with an opportunity, _Monseigneur,_ than I take it. There might never be one again."  
I finally realise which kind of an accent he has. He's French, or at least from a French colony, perhaps Port-au-Prince, Baton Rouge or Haiti.  
"The Assassin way, I suppose."  
The stranger narrows his eyes. "You didn't seem to have any objections with the _Assassin way_ last time."  
"Your last target was of far lesser significance and rank than this one. And I'm not saying he mustn't die, I'm saying that should you fail, I go down as well."  
A sharp laughter escapes the Assassin's lips. "There is no need to be frightened. I do my job alright, you needn't worry. But I hope we can still agree on the necessity of the affair, oui?"  
"Of course we can. Haytham Kenway must die, and rather sooner than later."  
Horror overcomes me.  
My heart stops, an iron hand clasps my lungs. I struggle to breathe, tears filling my eyes.  
 _No no no no no. They can't. They can't kill him. I won't let them. I need to stop them before they leave the room, before that wretched Assassin kills the person I care the most about in my life. I will stop him. Whatever it takes, I will. Kill him first. Kill them both. If they're dead they can't hurt anyone anymore.  
_ My panic rises with every second that passes. The two men keep talking, slowly moving to the back of the room and out of my sight. I can't hear them, my thoughts dancing around, screaming at me.  
 _I need to write him, need to warn him. But the letter will never reach him in time. No. I need to act now.  
_ I reach for the wall's ledge, clutching it while simultaneously fiddling with the knot of the rope that's still holding me. It opens quicker than I expected and I nearly fall down the shaft, hanging in the air with only one hand still on the ledge. Silently cursing my clumsiness, I pull myself up, realising that the months of working here made me lose most of the strength that I had before. For one split second I'm balancing on the ledge, than I break forward through the wall hanging and tumble into the room. I immediately fall into a defensive position, ready to counter any kind of attacks.  
The two men are on the other side of the room, backs turned on me and still talking. The fire on my side of the room has died down, bathing it in darkness. They haven't seen me yet.  
I nearly rejoice at my fortune, silently taking off my shoes and then move forward, drawing one of my daggers.  
I'm too slow.  
The Assassin sees me the moment I throw the dagger, immediately pushing Canterbury aside. The blade dashes against the painting where the Lord's head was a moment ago, cutting through the canvas and sticking there, bouncing up and down.  
I charge at the Assassin at full speed, who has already drawn his sword and stepped in front of Canterbury, who is crouching on the floor, staring at me unbelievingly.  
"What... Aurelie? I..."  
My second blade dashes against the Assassin's, who easily parries the attack, attempting to get to my vulnerable side. I dodge sideways, trying to kick his legs off the ground.  
"Go. She's trained.", my opponent says in a far too calm voice, easily fending off my blow, his next one coming within an inch from my face.  
He's too good.  
Canterbury storms out, while I block another one of the Assassin's strikes, slowly retreating backwards.  
"You're tactics are good.", my opponent says in the same indifferent tone as before. "But you lack creativity."  
He parries another one of my attacks, slightly turning around and hits my side with a precise stroke of the elbow.  
I groan in pain, falling to my knees, only just yanking my armed arm upwards to prevent him from ending me at once.  
His blade crashes into mine at full tilt, pressing it forward, inch by inch closer to my face. It's a battle of strength now, and he's in the advantageous position, using his own weight to press the crossed blades forward. My head touches the ground, now I'm fully lying on it while he's bending over me. I'm pushing against his arms with both of mine, but it's of no use. I will die here. And as a consequence, so might Haytham. I have failed my task, as I have failed him.  
With a last effort, I pull up my knee, kicking him in the crotch and yanking my arms to the side.  
He immediately reduces the pressure, rolling to the side and now it's his turn to hiss in pain.  
I slowly rise on my knees, and then to my feet, waiting for him to do the same, which he does at once.  
"Quick learner, eh?"  
The amused smile has vanished from his lips, a small victory for me.  
He charges at me so quickly, that I don't have enough time to react properly.  
His blade hits the side of my dagger, but slides off, brushing the flesh right beneath my ribcage.  
The impact sends me off my feet again, but this time once and for all, as he places a foot on my torso, slowly shifting his weight to it.  
Something cracks and a striking pain joins the one in my side.  
I cry out, both of my hands trying to get him off me.  
Cold metal against my throat. I freeze.  
"Who are you?", he asks.  
I stay silent.  
The metal pierces my skin.  
"I asked you a question."  
" _Fuck you."_  
He chuckles. "Really. That's all you have to say? Not really the striking sort of last words, no?"  
I just stare back.  
A door opens somewhere. The patter of feet.  
The Assassin draws back a few steps, two pairs of arms seize me in his stead, hauling me on my feet.  
Canterbury has returned, a couple of soldiers accompanying him.  
What apparently also returned is his courage, as he steps forward, his face only inches from mine.  
"Well well well.", he sneers. "Full of surprises, my staff. Who sent you?"  
I spit right into his face, hissing " _Coward._ "  
"Such defiance. What do you think, one of your sorts, or one of mine?", he calls over to the Assassin, who advanced and says "Her wrists, _toute suite_."  
The two soldiers force me to stretch out my arms, which he takes into his, intensively studying them.  
"No Assassin.", he then exclaims, releasing me and turning back to the other man. "Her wrists would be scarred from the hidden blades. She's one of yours. The skin on her ring finger is a bit lighter, she usually wears a ring there."  
"A Templar, then. Interesting. I didn't know we were talking in little girls. Why would you want to kill me, Aurelie? Aren't we all sworn brothers... And sisters apparently?"  
"You _fucking_ _traitor_."  
I fight against the hands that restrain me with all the force I have left. I want to claw out his eyes. I want to make him pay.  
"Traitor? How ignorant you are. You see, my dear, that's a matter of perspective. To me, your oh so precious Grand Master is nothing but a traitor himself, a traitor to our cause and the overall purpose the Knights Templar have sworn to fulfil."  
"You will never get to him."  
"No? Who will keep me from doing it? You? I most sincerely doubt that."  
He walks over to the fire, taking an iron poker from the wall and starts stirring the fire.  
"I overestimated Haytham, really. I wouldn't have thought that he'd be as arrogant to send a child to take me down. I think I'm actually a bit offended."  
I fight even harder, but still to no avail.  
The pain in my side stings like an angry insect, drawing tears into my eyes. Blood runs down my hip, soaking my blouse and skirt.  
"We don't know how much she knows, and with her how much Kenway knows.", the Assassin issues from the back, watching the scene before him like an innocent bystander.  
"Yes, unfortunately so.", Canterbury mumbles, still focused on the dancing flames in front of him. "But she couldn't have done it alone. There must be someone involved, someone in this household who helped her. Bring Abney to me."  
One of the guards quickly salutes and them leaves the room.  
Canterbury turns back to me, eyes narrowed. "Who is it."  
 _Gus. I cannot save myself, but there still is a chance for him to survive_.  
"I'm operating alone."  
He laughs. "And I'm supposed to believe that? I'll find out anyway. One way or the other. And whoever it is, that person will pay for their betrayal just as you will."  
I struggle so hard, that I actually manage to break free for a moment. Surprised by my sudden freedom of movement, I stumble forward, reaching out a hand.  
But they already have me again, pulling me backwards. One of the soldiers kicks my left leg hard. The lower bone breaks with a loud crushing noise. I'm screaming.  
"Shut up.", the guard snarls.  
My scream turns into sobs of pain.  
The door opens. Abney enters. "What's going on here?"  
Her voice is as harsh as ever, as she observes the scene before her.  
And how surreal it must seem: I, slumped on the floor; Canterbury by the fire and the Assassin's dark figure somewhere in the background.  
"Madame, good that you've come. Our dear Mrs. Garceau here has turned out to be a traitor, she attempted to kill me. Now I'd like to know with whom she was in contact."  
Abney eyes dart around between me and her superior, her eyes widening with every second.  
"I knew it.", she then whispers. "I knew something was wrong with that girl from the start."  
"Her contacts, Madame, if you were so kind."  
"The boy!", she exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at me. "That stable boy! I say them, always sending letters and conspiring. I thought it was merely an affair, I even confiscated a letter, and it didn't raise any suspicion. But now, everything makes sense."  
"Find him and bring him here."  
Three of the guards immediately obey the order.  
"No.", I whisper hoarsely. "He's innocent... It was just an affair, I swear on my life."  
"Your life's value has considerably decreased in the last few minutes, Aurelie. This statement just proves him to be your partner."  
"No. No, he's innocent.", I keep repeating, but my words fall on deaf ears.  
The minutes pass and I lie there, repeating and repeating as the tears stream down my face.  
 _Weak. So incredibly weak you are, Julie._  
The soldiers return, without Gus.  
"We cannot find him anywhere, Sir. He must've escaped somehow."  
"What?", Canterbury barks. "He can't be away for long. Send out search parties. Tell everyone there's going to be an award for any man or woman providing information leading to his capture. _Find him_!"  
The relief streaming through my veins nearly makes me laugh. Gus got away. He knew of my plan tonight. Gus will suspect that something went wrong. And with a bit of luck, he'll reach Haytham in time to tell him.  
Canterbury stares at me, loathing burning in his eyes. "We. Will. Find. Him."  
"Perhaps.", I answer, returning his gaze with a small smile on my face. "But perhaps you won't. And then your entire plan will fail and you will go to hell where you belong."  
The soldier to my right slaps me hard across the face, making my head hit the floor hard. Another pain to join the others.  
Canterbury has turned his attention back to the flames, taking the end of the poker and pulling it out of the flames.  
He comes over to me, slowly, enjoying every step he takes until I realise what he's about to do.  
The poker is no poker. It's a branding iron. And at its front is a symbol, red-hot and very familiar. A blazing cross, four-armed and symmetrical. The Templar sigil.  
"No, please don't.", I beg him, tears streaming down my face. "Please, please don't."  
"Get her down."  
The two guards rip my blouse in two parts, exposing my entire upper body, and press me onto the ground.  
" _Please, please, please_!"  
"I had this prepared should anyone try to cross me. Didn't think I might need it so soon."  
" _Please_!"  
"It's just all a matter of perspective, Aurelie. I did enjoy our little talks."  
With these words, he throws me into hell.  
The burning iron meets the skin of my left shoulder blade. Within a second, everything around me is gone. There's only pain. Hot, blazing pain. I can't feel anything but agony, I can't feel how the guards release me, how Canterbury withdraws the iron, what he says. It's all consumed by the fire burning on my skin.  
I scream and scream, perhaps for hours, perhaps for mere seconds. Time has become insignificant.  
The fire spreads, burning me from inside to outside until I'm fully ablaze and I scream.  
I scream until the world turns black. 


	6. Chapter 5

_So after a very long absence, here's the next chapter!_

 **Warning!**

 **Please keep in mind that there's a lot of both physical and mental abuse in this chapter, so read at your own risk. I don't want to spoil anything, but if you're not sure, contact me first.**

* * *

 ** _Loyalty I value the most about mankind._**

I'm drowning.I have died many times.

And they're killing me over and over again.

* * *

 _The sound of hooves is the first thing I remember after the darkness. The pain is the second. A hot, blazing pain. One I have never even closely experienced before. It's the fire from before, which has now withdrawn to the area around its centre, my left shoulder. There's another one in my leg, not even closely comparable, but I cannot move without stirring it. I try to scream, but something prevents me from doing so. There's something in my mouth, a piece of cloth or similar._

 _Everything around me is shaking; I can feel the wheels beneath me jolt over an uneven ground. The movement further enrages the beast inside of me, the flames burning through my flesh and charring my soul. Soon the flames should break through my skin and the whole world will turn to ashes._

 _My eyes shoot open._

 _Darkness. A horse whinnies._

 _I'm blind. There is nothing but the void. Another attempt to scream, it fails. Only a soft whimper._

 _I panic, but have lost control over my body._

 _Fabric brushes over my face._

 _Perhaps the hooves aren't hooves but rain._

* * *

"Let me repeat my question."

My tormentor hasn't moved an inch since the last time he killed me, still smiling wickedly.

I'm still on the chair, freezing in the cold, my wet hair and clothing sticking to my body.

My breathing is uneven, the memory of my last death still too vivid.

"Where is the Apple?"

My voice is but a whisper. "I told you all I know, we never spoke about those artefacts."

He sighs. "I thought we agreed on not lying to each other, no? After all of our shared hours, you disappoint me."

Not again.

"Please, I swear it. I never was part of his inner circle, I don't know. I don't know."

I'm shaken with sobs. "Please. I told you everything!"

The first step is darkness. A cloth, wrapped around my head, still wet from his last attempt to obtain information I do not possess. Then immobility. The chains leave bruises on my skin. One precious second of silence. A splash and I breathe water. Screaming only makes it worse, but I cannot fight the panic. I never can.

He pulls my head back, pulling at what remains of my hair so that I wouldn't drown too fast.

I gag, fighting the bonds that restrain me to the chair, not noticing the pain it causes me. My body spasms, my lungs screaming for air. My screams silent, only gurgling audible. Black spots appear in my vision.

 _Give in! Give in! It's over soon, just give in._

After minutes of fighting the pointless war against the water, I'm defeated.

The void, my old friend, welcomes me back into his arms.

* * *

 _The carriage comes to a halt._

 _Someone opens its door, the world sways as they climb in._

 _"Time to visit your new home, darling."_

 _The stranger lifts me from the seat; the fire in my body immediately flares up, roaring like a raging dragon._

 _A fierce cold wind pulls at my clothes._

 _I'm being carried, the wind suddenly stops, we're probably indoors._

 _Down some stairs, judging by the patter of feet._

 _I have long lost my orientation._

* * *

"We're done for today, tomorrow we'll try again."

He releases me from the cot and chains me to a retaining ring on the wall while we wait for my escort. The stone wall feels solid against my cheek; nothing could ever break the everlasting walls of my prison.

I'm tired; it's useless telling him that there is nothing I know. The other one appears in the doorway, he brings me back to my cell, half dragging, half carrying me.

Endless stone walls and the persistent smell of death.

* * *

 _They left me alone for my first three days. I lay there for hours, swaying between consciousness and darkness, the pain occasionally pulling me back to reality, or at least my perception of it. At some point, I managed to pull myself into a somewhat sitting position, careful not to touch the wall with my injured shoulder. The exhaustion of that act sent me right back into oblivion._

 _The next time I awoke, I forced myself to stay conscious. Slowly, inch by inch, I examined my wounds. My torn blouse was soaked with blood, some dried some fresher, sticking to my side. I hardly managed to pull the cloth off the wound, inevitably also pulling off the bit of scab that had formed on the injury and connected it to what remained of my shirt. New blood poured out of the reopened wound, dripped on the cold stone floor and intermixed with all of the different dirt that had gathered there throughout the time. Binding the gash proved impossible, so I simply sat there and hoped it would close by itself, which it did to a certain extent._

 _Next on the list were my left leg and its broken lower bone. I vainly darted my eyes around my cell, searching for something with which I could put it in a splint, but there was nothing in it but myself._

 _So I robbed as far away from the wall as my chains allowed me to and then fastened my leg to one of the iron bars of my cell's entry, using the remnants of my blouse as a binding material. I repositioned myself and then, with all the strength I could gather, grabbed my chains and pulled myself towards where they were connected with the wall, hauling myself into a tense straight position for a split second, feeling how the broken bones in my leg readjusted themselves into something closer to a line than before._

 _No one heard my scream, or at least no one cared._

 _"That'll do.", I tried to assure myself through my tears. "At least until Haytham comes and takes me home."_

 _I did not expect it to take long. What a hopeful fool I was._

* * *

Perhaps it was all a dream.

Haytham won't come because there is no Haytham. He doesn't exist, he's nothing but a creation of my imagination. Perhaps I never left the palace; they threw me into the dungeon and left me to rot there.

At some point, I consider praying but quickly abandoned the idea again. If there is a God he has long turned his back on me.

Or perhaps I'm dead and this is my personal hell, doomed to die on a loop.

They never intended to kill me. At least not permanently. It wouldn't work. Nothing they tried, not the knives, the needles, their all-so-precious devices for inflicting pain upon their subject, not one proved effective with me. No pain even closely matched the one in my back, the blazing beast living inside me. It simply swallowed the rest, demanding and dominant as it was. _You belong to me alone_ , it says to me. _No one else shall have you._

So their first methods might be considered somewhat soft compared to what is known to be utilised in the world's most gruesome prisons, something I even indirectly witnessed in the palace, every time the Governor had been paid a visit by some higher ranking officials, who usually put him under pressure for not paying his tribute to the Sultan in accordance with the regulations, resulting in him hastily ridding the poor souls under his rule of every last coin they possessed. Those who could not pay were brought to his dungeon and scarcely ever seen again. Their screams could be heard in the quarters of the lower servantry.

But am I not still in the palace? Is this what the dungeon looks like? If I could somehow leave my cell, follow the long corridor towards the torture rooms, turn somewhere and ascend the stairs to the building's upper levels, would I find myself within the walls of my youth? The sandstone rooms and hallways, so different to the dark walls I now find myself in; the gardens, the haramlik with its fountain and black and white pavement? Perhaps I'd try to find Jenny, only to realise she never existed in the first place, along with the other people I probably never met.

I have always been here. Perhaps the information they are seeking from me is a part of some cruel game, or perhaps it is also a hallucination. Have I ever left my cell?

All hope I carried with myself before has long been abandoned, so I stopped counting the days as well. There is nothing left to count them for. After the second month, I understood that no one would come for me but the guard who brought me food and escorted me to my tormentor, waiting in his playroom to tie me to his chair and ask me pointless questions he long accepted I did not know. They never expected any answers from torture; it was more of a sport for them and a punishment for me.

And even those visits become rarer and rarer.

* * *

 _They came for me two days later, which I again had spent mostly unconscious. Opening the door woke me, as my leg was still bound to it and was therefore painfully jerked back with it._

 _"She's still alive, I'll bring 'er to Angus.", the first of the two guards grunted._

 _But the other one shook his head. "Nah, you know our orders. She won't survive another two days if we dont bring her to medical first."_

 _I was dragged down the endless corridor I would later come to know as the everyday path to my death and chained to a wooden table in the middle of a room similar to where I'd soon be interrogated for the first time._

 _But not too soon, as they first had to ensure my survival._

 _After about half an hour I had spent silently fighting the beast in my back, a woman entered the room, another maid I did not know, not much older than me and seemingly scared._

 _"You know what to do, no talking.", the second guard barked and the girl quickly nodded, shakingly putting down the items she had brought with her: a small bag and a bucket of water._

 _She handed me a piece of cloth to bite on and then started cleaning my wounds with a bottle of pure alcohol, not minding any of my muffled screaming or twitching, professionally bandaging my open injuries and successfully relocating the bones in my leg._

 _I silently watched as she cut off my tangled hair, my eyes following each long strand fall to the ground; only slightly wincing as she dressed me in a rough linen shirt which she painfully pulled over my head and back._

* * *

My only companions in the cell are the shadows and a rat I named Freddy, with whom I would occasionally share my meal, usually consisting of old bread crawling with maggots and a cup of water which I stay away from. Angus has his own methods of taking care of my hydration.

Freddy isn't really talkative and neither are the shadows, distant figures from the past drifting through my mind, infesting it with lost hope and leaving me even more shattered than before when they turn out to be hallucinations.

 _Take me with you_ , I want to scream. _Whatever place you vanish to, don't leave me here all by myself._

I still keep talking to them, telling them stories from the palace, singing the songs I learned while being at sea, reciting every single line I can remember from the Latin plays I had to study and educate them in what I recall from etiquette and my other subjects. Because, even though I am often uncertain whether I even say those words aloud, these memories are the only things keeping me sane, at least to a certain degree. I sometimes feel as if the past, or what I imagine the past to have been, is the only place I can run to without being followed and recaptured. Remembering what has been keeping my thoughts away from the present and the utter desperation of my current situation.

"We will continue our work another time."

I don't even bother responding to him anymore, he does not listen to me anyway. It is beyond me why he keeps asking me those questions when we both know that it's not answers he seeks, but the pleasure of inflicting pain upon me; of demonstrating his superiority over a weaker being.

While I wait for the usual guard to come and pick me up he starts to pack up his utensils, not paying me any attention, too preoccupied with his precious belongings. In the earlier days, after every session, he'd have to call a guard to clean up the mess I've caused, but they eliminated the problem by refraining from giving me any food before the treatments so that I'd be able to choke for hours but not cause any inconveniences to them.

Hunger has become a secondary need in any case; I hardly feel it at all. Either I've grown used to it, or it was also swallowed by the beast.

The guard comes and unchains me from the wall, dragging me through the corridor leading back to my cell. I only look up in surprise when he suddenly turns left into another corridor I've never seen before, it's darker and more narrow than the one I'm used to. There he ungently drops me on the floor and finally turns around.

It's not the guard who usually accompanies me.

"Did you seriously think I was just going to let you rot in here without at least getting my personal bit of revenge on you as well?", Newt asks me gleefully. I hardly see his face in the dim light but recognise the smirk he wears on his face, full of anticipation for whatever sentence he has cast upon me. Although I can imagine all too well what he might have in mind. My heart pace quickens as I frantically start searching for a way out. I know there is none, not this time, not in my condition and not with an enemy this bound on ending me.

He turns his back on me as if wanting to admire the opposite wall.

"You know, I have waited for this moment since the night you so rudely ran from Hancock and me. My head still hurt days after and I swore to myself that I would make you pay for it. So many different ways I imagined, it somehow satisfied me enough that the actual act of bothering to find you felt unnecessary. But then, you showed up again and thought it wise to report my relationship with Jane to Canterbury, leaving out names of course. You're not that stupid. At least you weren't then. I wanted to kill you when you stood there, I wanted to carve you up like a fucking animal. So close you were, and yet unreachable, suddenly under the Master's protection, there was no way I could even get close to you."

He turns around again, staring down at me with disdain.

"And then, fortunately for me, you made the most stupid decision in your entire miserable life. And now we're here and no one will care what I'll do to you. Because you don't exist anymore. You have become a ghost and no one will ever know what happened to you because no one will know that you ever existed. Should the unlikely event of anyone asking for you occur, then I can promise you I will personally ensure that event to never happen again."

Slowly, almost lovingly, he crouches down beside me, not minding my pitiful attempts to crawl away from him and draws a dagger from its shaft on his belt, examining the way its blade reflects the light of a nearby torch.

I can't keep my eyes off his face, tracing it for anything that I might use to my advantage while still being too scared to even move. No matter what races through my mind, it would all encourage him even further. It's useless.

So I let him pass. Show no sign of reaction when he reaches down and starts cutting through the fabric of my clothes, simply turn my head away, focus my eyes on some spot on the wall and try to blend it out. I know what to do. The dragon won't let me feel the pain; I can always rely on him.

The unpleasant sound of torn fabric is now replaced by the clink of his belt being unbuckled. Somewhere deep in my mind, I'm filled with fear that he might hear my heartbeat and realise how terrified I really am. If that happens, I'd lose even that last bit of power over myself that I still hold. My resistance as far as it goes.

So it isn't the noise _I expect_ which yanks me out of my mental stronghold, but the one that I don't.

Newt begins to laugh; a humourless snicker filled with venom which makes me shiver and stirs the hair on the back of my neck.

"Good Lord." he exclaims while staring at me with such spite that I immediately feel the urge to cover my body from his eyes. "You must be the ugliest creature that I've ever seen. Can't even look at you without getting sick. Turn around so I 'm not forced to watch this hideous excuse for a female body anymore."

I don't comply, just stare at the stone ceiling above my head.

"I said _turn around._ "

As this still doesn't reach the desired effect, he grabs my sensible side and roughly shifts me around himself, immediately fuelling the fire in my shoulder. The dragon roars, unleashing another shockwave of pain that threatens to consume me. I bite my lip hard to prevent myself from both screaming or crying, my fingers clawing at the floor as if wanting to tear out a piece of solid rock from it.

I completely freeze, unable to do anything but firmly shut my eyes and focus on channelling the pain. It's a ladder, a lifeline, a way for me to leave behind all existence and float in the endless waters of pure consciousness, to disconnect my mind from my body. So that I do not feel his sweaty hands on me, lifting my body from the ground, positioning my legs to his advantage. Some part of me wants to fight, to kick him, to scream and to run away; but I simply can't, I have lost all control over myself. My only way to protect myself from reality is to escape it.

Each one of his thrusts is a new wave of pain, circularly emerging from their epicentre in my shoulder, the equal-armed cross burned into my flesh. And I let myself drift, the waves bouncing my body in the black sea. The pain, my only friend, my most loyal companion, welcomes me, swirls me around and carries me forward. We're one, united at last.

It doesn't take long but feels like an eternity.

Newt doesn't bother to dress me back into the torn shirt, he simply drags me back to my cell and tosses it over my exposed body.

"So that no one will have to see you." he hisses through the bars, granting me a last one of his sneers and then leaves me alone with the fear, the tears and the shadows on the walls.

* * *

My interrogations have stopped.

Crying has become too exhausting, the thirst and the hunger ridding me of whatever desire to live I might have once had. Even thinking is too hard for me now.

I can feel the presence of death; his cold breath brushes over my skin and his icy kisses leave traces on my sweaty brow.

 _Come with me child_ , he whispers to me. _Come with me and leave it all behind._

There is nothing I'd rather do than obey, welcome his eternal embrace and simply let go. But however hard I try, even with the refusal of what little food they grant me, even then there is something preventing me from doing so. Some small part of me who fears death even more than confinement. Even more than the pain. It keeps me alive against my will, pulls me away from the darkness and fights the emptiness inside me.

So I lie there, weaker and weaker, my eyes fixed on the glow the torch on the wall opposite to my cell casts on the ground and wait for that small light inside of me, my final stand before the gates of hell, to finally be overpowered by the void it silently fights. Because there is no other way to go than the path that lies before me. My other options have long vanished one by one. Only one step forward, over the threshold that connects the world of the living with the one of the long forgotten souls, only one step and at last, the agony will come to an end. I just have to let myself fall, such an easy thing and yet so hard to perform.

If I could, I'd be angry with me. For not even having the will to die properly. But I can't find the energy to care. I don't care about anything anymore.

I must have fallen asleep at some point; even though it gets harder and harder to tell reality apart from whatever scattered thoughts my weary mind produces. There are loud voices coming from somewhere in the building, although I fail to make out their exact location. The noise is ringing in my ears; it feels like a hundred angry bees attacking my brain. Where does all the noise come from? _Silence!_ I want to scream. _Let me die alone!_ All I manage is to close my eyes again, but not for long as there is another noise now, a familiar one and closer, only a few corridors away.

The loud voices are now joined by shouting and grunting, a few screams now and then and the unmistakable sound of steel meeting steel.

My heart is racing, my breathing uneven; it requires all my strength to stay focused and listen to the fight happening such a short distance away.

And there it is, the enemy I thought impossible to ever encounter, the thing I never thought I'd ever feel again.

A spark of hope.

I don't even deny or attempt to fight it, listening is much more important right now. More screams, someone is yelling orders I cannot understand, distant cursing and more sounds of swords being struck against each other.

Steps come closer, I panic. _What if it's Newt again, who came to finish me once and for all?_ Because even if I feel like death is my only option, I don't want it to be him. I want it to be anyone but him. Taking my life would be his last victory, and I don't want him to win.

I hold my breath in an attempt to stay hidden, although I know that I'm being ridiculous. Newt knows exactly where to find me and that I'm too weak to fight him or run away should I somehow miraculously manage to flee my cell. There is no way out for me.

The steps are now quieter again, the person has moved away in another direction. I am simultaneously filled with both disappointment and relief and slowly exhale. Meanwhile, the overall noise has grown even louder than before, as if the combat was mere steps away. But I know that my mind deceives me, as the torch on the wall has not even flickered yet. They are still too far away.

After the crescendo of the fight, the following silence almost appears condemning. It feels like it took a lifetime to end. Which side has won? Which sides were there in the first place?

Someone hisses something not far from my cell, followed by an ugly gurgling sound. My heart, which beat so quickly a mere second ago, now freezes. It was close enough for me to understand the question that was asked. A question that ignited the previously smothered flame of hope all anew. Three simple words.

 _Where. Is. She._

All the agony, the resignation, the anger, all forgiven and forgotten at the prospect of seeing him again. He came. He came. He came here for me. He came to rescue me. To bring me back to life. To tear me away from death's cold grip. He is here.

"Haytham.", I try to scream but manage nothing but a faint whisper. _I'm over here. Over here._

Something blocks the light of the torch. Someone is standing there. Tall and broad-shouldered. _It's him. It's him. It's him._

Keys clinking, it's too dark to see anything. I cannot speak anymore, the excitement almost become too much to bear. _He's here._

The figure tries to glance through the bars but apparently fails to recognise anything. A whisper, a word, a name, _my name._ My real name, not Aurelie Garceau. Aurelie is dead, she died in the fight with the Assassin. But Julie, Julie is alive. Julie lives and she is here and she is me and it is her name that was whispered through the bars.

I gather all my strength, but only manage a whimper as an answer, constantly scared that Haytham will for some reason decide to leave me here. Perhaps if he believes me dead or too weak to come with him.

And there it is again, the small but persistent voice of doubt in my head. _Oh, Julie_ , it says. _Stupid, hopeful, naïve Julie. Has it not crossed your mind that he might not be here to save you, but to finally rid himself of the constant problem you pose. You know how he treats traitors, and failures like you are just another kind of it._

But even the prospect of dying through his hand seems merciful compared to the long and agonising death that awaited me under my previous circumstances.

My head feels heavy, it is almost impossible to move it, but I somehow accomplish it. Now I'm in a better position to glance at my saviour, the dark shadow towering before me.

He's still struggling with the keys in the low light, his cursing louder than before. My mind takes a while until I realise that it is not Haytham's voice I hear. It's darker and has a very different intonation than Haytham's clear English accent. The fear immediately returns to me.

The door to my cell opens with a creak.

"My God, what have they done to you?"

For a second, he just stands there, just as inert as me, as we try to recognise each other's faces. Then he slowly crouches down beside me, the torch's fading light shines through a loose strand of silky dark hair, finally revealing the aristocratic cheekbones, straight nose and the unmistakable scar splitting his right eyebrow.

In this very moment, although I know that it makes no big difference, disappointment is all I feel. That, and the everlasting fear.

"Can you hear me?", Shay asks in a quiet voice as if there were unwanted ears listening.

I jerk my head very slowly, attempting a nod.

"Good. I'll get ya out of here, I promise. Everything will be alright. Can you walk?"

If I were able to, I would have laughed. But now I'm even more scared that he will leave me all out of sudden. Shay barely knows me at all. He has a hundred more reasons to just leave me behind than Haytham, with whom I at least share some sort of bond. _But,_ the voice in my head hisses, _hasn't Haytham already let you down all these months? And now? Where is he now?_

 _Somewhere nearby!_ , I angrily reply. _Standing guard or coordinating his men._ Not even I believe my own foolish lies anymore.

"Julie."

Shay jerks me out of my thoughts.

"Can you try and stay awake? It'll be easier for the both of us."

I nod again, forcing myself not to jerk back from his outstretched hand, fighting the terror that has me in its grip. _Haytham sent him. He's a friend._

Very cautiously, as though treating an injured bird, Shay first wraps his coat around my shoulders and then tries to lift me to my feet, which immediately awakens the dragon. He roars furiously, the fire exploding inside of me, not permitting me to leave. The pain is too strong, what's left of my rational mind turns itself off and pure instinct takes control. My chains rattle as I first jump backwards, and then, as my feet alone fail to carry me, crawl back on all fours and press myself against the opposite wall, as far away from him as possible. The adrenaline renders me painless for a precious second. A warning growl, more resembling a cornered animal than a human being escapes my throat. _Get away from me! Leave me here and go!_

That's what I want to scream at him right now. But I don't do it. Because I still want him to take me as far away as possible from this place of death and agony. To help me out of my misery.I choose to stay quiet and wait for his reaction.

Shay hasn't moved an inch, apparently not surprised by my attack, or at least not showing any signs of it. He is still crouching on the floor beside the open door, calmly looking me in the eye. "No one is going to hurt you, Julie.", he now says in a voice probably aiming at reassuring me. "I just want to get you out of here, alright? But I can't do that all by myself."

I still don't answer, so he rises to his feet and walks over to me. "Let me see that."

The chain is still fastened to my right leg, so he first frees me with one of the keys on the ring he brought with himself, mindful not to come too close to me. I wrap his coat even tighter around me, ignoring the further pain the act inflicts.

"Where exactly are you injured?"

It takes me a few attempts to answer, I try my best but the words just don't leave my mouth. The recent lack of water has dried out my throat. Or perhaps the months without much talking have made me forget how to use my tongue. "Upper… Back… Side…Leg."

Shay nods sternly and then seems to contemplate what to do next.

"You can't walk, so I'll have to carry you. It will hurt but I'll try to minimise the pain as far as I can. From the way you're moving, I assume its your left side that's injured?"

Another nod.

"Right. I'll keep that in mind. There's… something else. Your eyes haven't been exposed to any daylight for a while now, it might be best if I bandage them for now, to prevent them from taking any damage."

Now it is not only fear that rushes through my veins, it's also pure panic. Blindness means no control, water, choking, pain, death. Hands I cannot see. Touch I cannot foresee.

I violently shake my head, trembling and with tears on my cheeks.

His brows are furrowed now, and I'm too scared to do anything.

"Don't…..go.", I try to convince him not to just turn around and seal my fate.

He's silent for a second, staring at me with an expression somewhere between anger and disbelief, although I cannot fully make out which one it is.

"I won't leave you, for God's sake.", he grumbles. "Who do you take me for?"

Then, after another pause of silence. "Fine, no bandages. Can you try to lift yourself from the wall a bit?"

This time, he succeeds in wrapping one arm around my waist, careful not to come too close to my injuries, and placing the other under my knees, gingerly picking me up.

"Christ lass, you weigh next to nothing."

My fingers cling firmly to the fabric of his coat, my face half buried in it, as I silently fight the raging dragon while simultaneously growing stiff, trying to resist the anxiety that builds inside me. Although there is at least one layer of thick fabric between his skin and mine, my heart races and my breathing's unstable. I can almost feel the sweaty hands on me again.

 _Too many enemies._

On the way through the long corridors I have become too familiar with, I spot a sunken figure in a sitting position leaning against a wall.

At first, I don't recognise it through the thick layer of smoke, nearly open my mouth to warn Shay but then realise who it is I'm looking at.

Newt, with wide open eyes, staring into the void, his entire uniform and the wall behind him soaked crimson from the open gash in his throat.

It's too much to bear, my mind shuts down and I flee into the well-known darkness that has carried me through the past months.


	7. Chapter 6

Next one coming soon!

* * *

The dream always starts with me opening my eyes, which is so unusual that I mostly think I'm waking up instead.

I'm standing in a dark room, although I can't be sure it is one as I don't see any walls or a ceiling. Water gently caresses my knees, water stretching as far as the eye can see, unifying with the black void in the distance. When I turn my head upwards I almost expect to see stars above me, but there is nothing but the same darkness as everywhere else. I can't see any direct light source either, but it seems like the surface of the black sea I'm standing in is glowing on its own, or reflecting some distant light only the water itself can see.

The ground I'm standing on feels solid and cold, like stone. There is no one else here, but I still scream for help. My cries vanish into the void and no answer ever comes back. I've also tried escaping, running in one direction or another, but it's pointless running into nothingness.

It always ends the same.

There's a distant noise, growing louder and louder. I can never tell what exactly it is, a crescendo of unified memory, but sometimes I feel like hearing a rhythmical stamping sound, the rattle of chains, even laughter. And suddenly, I can't move, just stand there, terribly frightened, and watch the water slowly rise. I shudder as it touches my hips, my belly, my chest, and then slowly climbs up to my chin.

My heart gripped with panic, I try to raise my face to the starless sky, just to gain another precious breath of air, and then it's over.

I never actually die as I never actually wake up.

There are glimpses here and there, but I can't tell reality from hallucinations anymore, or maybe everything is just a dream with no end. A tree outside a small window, loaded with glistening snow, so bright that my eyes sting like angry wasps and bright spots dance in my vision even after I've closed my eyes again. Shadows on a wooden wall. A bitter taste in my mouth. Endless black water. Keys rattling in the distance. I'm freezing and blazing at the same time, shaking uncontrollably. More bitterness. More drowning. I turn my head away from it and I turn my head upwards for a last breath and I always lose. Trapped for eternity.

Sometimes, there's singing in the noise, rough voices and sweet ones, telling me stories I don't understand.

 _Au Claire de lune_

 _Pierrot répondit._

And what exactly did Pierrot respond, chère maman?

 _Hurrah, my boys, we're homeward bound,_ a dozen voices roar in return.

"Goodbye, fare-ye-well.", I joyfully hum with them.

And while the black tides come and go, I'm their constant companion, always with a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Goodbye, fare-ye-well!", I shout into the darkness.

Pierrot doesn't respond.

Another glimpse now, a face framed by silver hair, illuminated by a light source somewhere in the back.

"Maman.", I gasp. Tears blur my vision, I blink angrily, I want to see her clearly. It's heaven, I'm convinced. And she's smiling down at me. I can't see her face, just the shining garland of light around her head, but I know it. But why does heaven hurt so badly?

It's the pain that makes me sob softly, the pain in my body and the pain in my soul. _Pourquoi tu m'as quitté?_ , I beg her.

"Hold still, stupid girl!", the floorboards creak.

The bitterness returns, however hard I fight it.

My mother sings again.

 _Au Clair de la lune_

 _Mon ami Pierrot_

 _Prête-moi ta plume_

 _Pour écrire un mot_

"Don't bother.", I tell her. "He's got no bloody pen and he's quite moody today."

The waves have gotten colder, I shiver under the sheets, my whole body covered in sweat.

Still no stars in the sky above me.

 _Au Clair de la lune_

 _On n'y voit qu'un peu_

My gaze wanders back to the half-lit waves surrounding me. Perhaps it's truly moonlight they're reflecting, a moon I can't see from where I'm standing, perhaps I cannot see him because you can barely see in moonlight?

 _On chercha la plume_

 _On chercha du feu_

"On chercha la sortie!", I grumble back at the voice. But how to find the exit in an endless sea?

 _Our anchor we'll weigh, and our sails we will set,_ the waves howl as they engulf my waist. _Goodbye, fare-ye-well._

'If you can't find the exit to a situation, just leave the way you came in', a very Haytham sounding voice whispers through the winds in a streak of wisdom.

How very helpful.

I stare at the waves surrounding me.

I blink.

I blink again.

"Goodbye, fare-ye-well...", I whisper, eyes widening in surprise.

And suddenly, I know what to do.

With an almost solemn calmness, I turn my head towards the starless sky one last time, as the water reaches my belly, then take a deep breath and throw myself headfirst into the inky black floods.

My eyes shoot open and I'm immediately blinded by the glaring brightness.

White spots explode all around me like fireworks, refusing to fade however hard I screw up my eyes or yank my head around. My shoulders twist painfully as I try to raise my upper body from the bed I'm lying on. Something is restraining me, binding my arms and legs to the mattress.

And where there are bonds, there's death.

Not again not again not again.

The fear is back in a blink, I scream and twist in blind panic, trying to free myself before I have to drown again. The ropes cut into my flesh and leave angry red marks on it, but I don't care because it doesn't kill me like the water will.

There's a loud bang and suddenly there are people around me, holding me down, pressing my sweat drenched body back into the sheets, ignoring my screams and tears and pitiful attempts to get them off me.

They all seem to talk at once. "Where's the Laudanum?"

"Forget the goddamn Laudanum! I have a small vile of _tears_ left, it's over there, on the shelf, next to..."

Another one of my screams interrupts the voice mid-sentence and her accomplice has to find the vile on his own.

It doesn't take long.

"Keep her still."

A small sting and my body's limp while my mind drifts away. The last thing I hear is one of the voices talking again, which I'm too tired to understand.

The next time I awake, I'm prepared.

No dreams haunted me this time, just blissfully deep unconsciousness.

I wait for some time before only slightly opening my eyes, awaiting the glaring whiteness. There's nothing. Encouraged, I fully open them and wait for the blurry dark spots around me to form shapes. The first thing I see is the flaming sky of a setting sun outside, sending its fiery glow through a small window opposite my bed.

The sun itself isn't within the window so that at first I don't know whether it's rising or setting, but after a while I realise that it's getting darker by the minute.

My eyes have slowly adjusted themselves to the low light and I let my gaze wander over my newest prison.

A small room, wooden walls and a few simple pieces of furniture, a chair and a cabinet on the wall next to the door.

There's a small candle on a bedside table beside me, casting a faint circle of light over the room, the flame flickers and hisses at the draught emerging from the slightly open door.

The pain is still there, but the beast appears almost tamed, only a shadow of its former magnitude, peaceful in its drugged sleep.

I'm still tired but fight the urge to close my eyes again. Even in my current situation, weak and bound, I have at least some sort of control over myself, which vanishes every time I enter the surreal world of my opium-soaked subconsciousness.

The sound of creaking wood cuts through the silent room like a knife, there are steps on an old staircase, laboured and slow, until the noise suddenly ends and someone carefully opens the door inch by inch, as if first wanting to check if I was still asleep.

I lie still as a mouse, trying to peer through my closed lids.

A shadow shuffles through the room, the rattled, uneven breathing somehow reassuring me to open my eyes a bit more.

There's a small, humped figure standing next to the cabinet, their back turned towards me. They stand on their toes, shakingly open one of the doors and reach for something.

"Finally awake I see.", they say in a voice sounding as old as time itself.

Knowing that there is no use in pretending to be unconscious any longer, I now fully open my eyes and examine the mysterious figure in detail. As they turn around, the candle next to me and the additional one they're carrying finally reveal their features. A raddled face, marked with lines and wrinkles, deep-seated striking blue eyes, a large nose, a mouth without lips, its corners drawn downwards in an everlasting frown and a crown of silver hair.

The old woman stares back at me, her gaze piercing right through mine. I immediately look away.

She mumbles something and places the tray she's carrying on my bedside table, while I keep my eyes fixed on the now dark window.

"I'll have to change your bandages, I sincerely recommend you not to put up such a fuss again, or I'll kick you out myself, understood?"

She takes my silence as consent and starts untying me, uncovering me to my hips. I shiver as the cold air meets my overheated skin.

The old woman removes the bandages on my back not too gently, commanding me to lift myself from the sheets for a minute, which I manage after a few attempts, stuffs some cushions under my torso and then quickly examines the wound, her only comment consisting of a short "Mm."

She picks up a small bowl from the tray and places a handful of fresh snow onto my back. My body recoils and I moan in protest, trying to shake it off, but with a surprising force, she presses me back into the sheets.

"Pull yourself together, or I'll bind you again."

She hasn't raised her voice in the slightest, but I immediately grit my teeth and hold still. Rather the cold than the slavery of memories.

We wait until every last snowflake has melted and run down my side until she reaches for the tray again and applies some sort of ointment to my skin before she finally bandages the wound again.

The same procedure is repeated with the wound in my side, only that she seems more satisfied this time.

I don't realise I've closed my eyes until I feel her hand on my leg.

"Whoever treated you in there did a fairly good job with this.", she says. "I did not have to rebreak it, would've been a mess."

She adjusts the splint and then walks over to the bed's head again.

"Turn around."

I stare at her in fear, trying to blend out the last voice who commanded those exact same words. Tears blur my vision, I angrily blink them away.

 _It's different. He's dead now. You saw it. You saw it with your own eyes._

Her blue eyes scrutinise me without giving away any of her thoughts.

I hate the weakness that I feel, that I've felt for too long now, the weakness that overcame me the moment my dagger missed its target a lifetime ago.

As some sort of proof to her and overall myself as well, I again lift myself from the bed and slowly do as she asked, grimacing as my weight now shifts to my back. I close my eyes for a split second and try to calm the alert beast.

When I open them again, she's still there, watching me.

A single tear runs down my cheek, but I can't find the courage to wipe it off.

One of her fingers gently trails along the line where my ribcage almost pierces through my skin.

"It's a miracle you're alive, girl.", she mutters. "Don't let the past ruin the future you so fiercely fought for."

The moment is over before it can really begin and she abruptly turns to the table again.

With almost stoic patience, she feeds me soup from a wooden spoon and some bits of a mixture of mashed vegetables and herbs. The soup tastes awful, the mixture is worse, but I eat everything with a vile hunger I haven't felt in months.

My caretaker seems satisfied, her mood a bit brighter than before.

"I don't think anyone has devoured my soup this enthusiastically in years.", she tells me after bringing me back to my original position. "You're still too weak for something to actually help hide those bones of yours, but it's a start."

Too exhausted to answer, I simply close my eyes and press my face into the rough material of the pillow.

I'm already asleep when she blows out the candle and closes the door behind her.

The old lady wakes me up the next day. She's not as talkative as the evening before, not even after I obediently eat everything she brings me without the hint of a complaint, and each of her grips is rougher than the last.

Every time I nearly open my mouth to say something my throat tightens and I feel as if I haven't had a drop of water in years. So I stay silent, which she counters with a silence of her own. We eye each other carefully, not unlike two animals in the wild, trying to decide whether the other was trustworthy enough for words. Her piercing gaze and crooked nose often remind me of a vulture and a predator, waiting in everlasting patience for his prey to die and feast. But then again, I remind myself that she is the one keeping me alive and that my life solely depends on her right now. If she wanted me dead, I'd pose no great opponent to her. Refusing me food, overdosing my medicine, smothering me with a pillow. There are so many ways she could do it, and yet she keeps feeding me, tends to my wounds and cleans me. Why does she do it? What is my life to her, a complete stranger? Those questions I may ask myself, but never aloud. She still holds too much power over me to take any risks.

On the eve of the third night after I first saw her, I hear her talking to someone downstairs. A muttered conversation behind closed doors, then silence for a while, until I hear a sound I can't fully pin down. Some sort of wailing, sobbing or muffled screaming, a young female voice howls something. After some time, the sobbing grows silent again, a door opens and closes and then there's nothing distinguishable but the cries of the nocturnal animals outside.

I don't ask her about it and she never explains. Never ask a question you don't want to know the answer to.

The trees outside are still loaded with snow, which the sun transforms into a million shining diamonds, like the surface of the ocean on a sunny day. Icicles frame the window and I spend hours watching the small drops of water freeze on their ends until they cover half of the glass.

On the sixth day, I finally open my mouth.

"How long have I been here?"

My voice sounds strange and unfamiliar, hoarse and scratchy, more resembling a bird's caw than a human one.

After days of silence, that takes her by surprise.

"Oh, it speaks.", she says with her eyebrows slightly raised. "Must be almost a month now, former mute girl."

"Julie."

The sound of my own name feels odd after having grown accustomed to the melodic ring of Aurelie Garceau. My mother had been the only one to pronounce it the French way and even then it sounded wrong to me.

And in the prison, as in the palace, I had no name.

"What?"

"Julie. My name."

Juh-lee. The tongue gently tips the roof of the mouth.

And yet so rough.

"Ah."

I consider telling her my last name as well, but it seems to laugh in my face. _Martin_ , but you couldn't fly away when you should have, no?

She decides to end the conversation right there by leaving me to myself again.

I sigh and close my eyes, listening to my own heartbeat for a few moments. A month of which I only fully remember a small fraction. One answer which opens the doors to a million other questions. The strong feeling of being caught in an endless loop has left the world of my fever-stricken dreams and taken over of what I assume to be reality.

For the first time in weeks, I can't fall asleep again, however hard I try to keep my mind clear from any unwanted thoughts.

I'm still awake when she returns hours later, carrying her usual tray to commence with our evening routine.

"Your fever broke after about fifteen or sixteen days.", she then unexpectedly says while examining the cut in my side. "I thought you'd wake up afterwards but you didn't. Was halfway convinced you were one of those fellows who'd fall asleep once and never wake up again. Not physically dead, but their minds long gone.. This one's healing well, but it'll certainly leave a nasty scar. Won't be as bad as the one on your back, though."

I press my face into the pillow and close my eyes, listening to her voice to blend out the pain. It has gotten worse ever since the last drop off opium has left my system, but isn't even comparable to what I experienced in the cell. Her gnarled fingers brush my skin, yet I'm not overtaken by fear or panic. It almost feels like leather or the bark of a tree touching me. For whatever reason, I'm starting to trust her.

"A four-armed cross. Now you'll never forget to be careful when dealing with Haytham Kenway."

My eyes immediately shoot open and I yank my head around, staring at her fully aghast.

"What do you know of Haytham?", I snap without thinking.

She observes my reaction with an alarming calmness, almost as if she had waited for me to lose my nerves.

"More than you, apparently. As I'm not the one lying on the bed right now."

"It's different," I answer through gritted teeth. "I brought this upon myself."

She chuckles humourlessly. "Have you now."

My heart races. Was it Haytham who brought me here? How else would she know him! Did he tell her his name to let me know that he's there? But where is he then? And why did she tell me to beware of him? Nothing makes sense anymore and there is no one I can fully trust to give me the answers I so desperately seek.

"Don't we all know a Haytham of a sort?" She pauses midway of rebandaging my leg and eyes me absentmindedly. "Hmm. I'll tell you this, girl, for now you have experienced the cold reality of life and perhaps even start to see it as it is. It's a man's world in which we live in. A world of Haytham Kenways. You might think he is special for making _you_ feel special, but they're all just the same in the end. For them, we're pawns. Mostly replaceable. We're fine as long as we do our duty, but will never even get close to them. They're superior in their thinking and they're superior in their acting. We are their lesser. So think carefully from now on, observe without the blinding nativity of a child's eyes. It is mankind's burden to always disappoint, those knives cut deep and their wounds don't heal as fast as those of the flesh. And the scars they leave are a hundred times worse."

Something stirs in the back of my mind, a memory as far away as the sun, so similar and yet under entirely different circumstances.

 _Those knives cut deep_ , the old woman said. _Kill or be killed_ , Miranda's cold voice echoes through my mind, on that sunny day when September faded into November and I learned the truth about Jane.

I know no answer to her words, so I just stare at her. She seems so old standing there now that I almost fear her to suddenly collapse into a cloud of dust and ashes.

The sincere sadness in her voice, mixed with the sharp flavour of unspoken anger, it makes me wonder what might have happened to her that she chose a life like this, alone in her cabin, secluded from civilisation.

"Why do I trust you?", I whisper almost inaudibly.

She turns around on the doorstep, an unknown pain in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips.

"Because I am a woman, love. You expect no harm from me."

"Just cut it off!", I wince as she yanks the brush through the remnants of my wet hair.

"You'd regret that."

She disentangles another strand, while I rather unenthusiastically continue to scrub my left knee with the rough cloth she'd given me.

Almost fifteen days have passed since she revealed to at least somehow know Haytham, and not a single word about the subject has left her lips ever since. All my questions fell on deaf ears until I finally accepted her unwillingness to further discuss any of it. Five days ago, I climbed out of bed for the first time and, with the old woman's help, even managed the few steps to the window, where I sat for an hour and watched the beautiful snowy landscape outside. Two months ago, I couldn't have imagined ever seeing such raw beauty again, and now I try to absorb every little detail of it so that I might return to it anytime I'd close my eyes. Fifteen days of waking up screaming only to later discover that it was only in my mind, as Val assures me that I've been quiet all night after I try to apologise for keeping her awake. My brain struggles to accept both realities as equally existent, the peaceful one I'm experiencing right now and the brutal, blurry months of incarceration, though the latter still haunts my dreams.

The cabin stands on a hill in what seems to be a small forest, the wilderness seemingly untouched by any form of civilisation. It's a peaceful place, but desperately lonely.

It's March and some nights, not even my two fur blankets manage to keep off the cold. My caretaker, not without complaining about this never-ending winter, then sometimes brings me an ancient-looking bed warmer, filled with hot river stones to warm my bed.

Eight months ago I set sail in New York, only a bit over half a year has passed since then, but it feels like a lifetime. There is no way I could've anticipated what awaited me in the following months and what those months would do to me.

This very morning, the old woman decided it was beyond time for me to take a proper bath since she was definitely done with having to clean me with a wet cloth, which had been rather poor attempts anyway.

I didn't complain much, the prospect of cleanliness and the touch of warm water being rather pleasant. What I didn't expect was her to actually try and brush out my hair. As months of incarceration left it a wild, matted mess, the process of getting it back into its original state is a rather painful one.

"You still haven't told me your name.", I say to distract myself.

"Why's that so important.. Don't move your head!"

I shrug. "Told you mine weeks ago."

"Val.", she says in between two strokes.

This takes me by surprise, I didn't expect her to answer.

"Val.", I repeat, savouring the taste of the new name on the tip of my tongue. "Is it short for something?"

"No."

"Valentina, perhaps. Or something more unique, like Valley.", I continue, ignoring her answer.

She scoffs.

"It's short for 'be quiet and mind your own bloody business'."

And after a moment: "Who would name their child Valley anyways."

"Oh.", I say, wincing a bit as she untangles the rest of my hair. "Some of the Native tribes traditionally give their children names connected to nature. I think it quite symbolic."

"Do I look Native to you?"

I shrug. She has a point there.

Val wraps me in a blanket and helps me sit down on my spot next to the window. I watch as she hauls the tub next to me, opens the window and empties the water outside. Cold air flows into the room and I immediately start shivering uncontrollably.

Val gestures for me to wait a moment and carries the tub downstairs. My teeth are chattering loudly and I'm almost certain she forgot me there when she finally returns, each of her steps joined by a third, short thud. I watch her from the window, surprised not to find the expected bedpan in her hand, but an old and uneven wooden cane.

"It's time for you to finally get out of this room. There's a fire downstairs.", she says and leans the cane against the wall. I eye it suspiciously. "It's late.", I answer warily, not fully certain what exactly she wants me to do.

"Hurry, then."

She helps me stand and I clench my teeth, trying to ignore the usual pain that comes with the act. The provisional walking cane, I suspect it to be nothing more than an old branch from one of the trees surrounding the house, feels rough in my hand, but I manage to successfully lean on it and stand more or less on my own for the first time in months. Val doesn't move so I carefully place one foot forward and then, rather clumsily, the cane next to it, nearly losing my balance. My injured leg, though mostly healed, still hurts when I shift my full weight to it. The wounds and imprisonment have cost me all my former strength; it feels as if someone has taken control over my body so that it doesn't respond to my will anymore. Sometimes, when the full realisation of my current weakness threatens to overcome me, I bury my face in my pillow to prevent myself from yet again bursting into tears. But no, I've decided that I've shed enough of those for a lifetime and that they won't do me any favours anyway. It's like being caught in an endless merry-go-round of weakness and the resulting frustrating. One missed target cost me most of what I've had. My body and my soul crippled and disfigured, the little respect I held within the Order gone with my membership in it, only dead-ends left, right and in front of me.

The stairs turn out to be a greater obstacle than expected, I only managed them very slowly and with Val's assistance, having to pause a couple of times.

Downstairs, she guides me into an old, stuffed armchair standing beside the promised fireplace. It's scattered with holes and its faded fabric only hints at the former splendour of its purple colour, but all that vanishes before its wonderful softness. It's big enough for me to draw my knees to my chest and pull the blanket tighter around me, my eyes fixed on the flickering flames. My back aches with the memory of the last fireplace I've seen, where Canterbury burned the cross into my flesh. Fire and water, both have marked me for life, though I always thought air was my element, high up in the crow's nest, but apparently I had been wrong. And then there's earth, which will be the last and final one, closing the circle when it reclaims my body.

How fitting.

I let my gaze wander around, examining the room. It has one door, which I assume to be the front door, a few dirty windows and the same wooden walls as upstairs, only these are decorated with ink sketches of certain flowers and animals. Bundles of dried herbs and meat hang from a ceiling beam in the kitchen area, there's a large empty table on the opposite wall and an ancient looking rocking chair next to a small bookshelf.

A kitchen cabinet and a chest in which I assume Val keeps her clothes. Most of the floor is covered by an old, dusty carpet. I keep searching for another bed, but can't find any.

"Where do you sleep?", I call over to Val, who's busy cutting slices of meat and vegetables into a cauldron.

"In that armchair you're currently occupying."

"Oh.", I answer, suddenly ashamed that it hasn't occurred to me that the bed upstairs might be the only one she has.

She throws another log into the fire and then hangs the cauldron over it.

We eat in silence, the fire's occasional crackle the only sound disturbing it.

The stew is better than anything she's cooked since I first awoke and I eat two full bowls of it.

She seems satisfied. "You need the meat."

I stare at my entwined fingers for a second. "Val?"

"Hm?"

"I just remembered something. The very first time I woke up, I was still bound and not thinking straight, there were people in the room and someone said something about Laudanum and tears and then... I must've lost consciousness again."

She looks at me for a moment and then gets up, opens the kitchen board, then sits down again with a wooden box in her hand.

In it are a pipe and a small tobacco pouch, with which she stuffs the pipe.

Only after she has lit it and taken the first, deep puff, she replies.

"There were no other people. You woke up screaming like a maniac and I injected you a dose of _tears of the poppy_ , highly dosed opium, to calm you down again. Laudanum would've been too weak for that sort of hysteria."

This takes me by surprise. "I could've sworn there were others."

"You were so heavily drugged, you could've seen Father Christmas for all I know."

I watch as she blows the smoke into the air, while the smell of tobacco spreads throughout the room.

Isn't the point where one cannot tell their hallucinations from reality anymore the beginning of madness?

"Please take the bed today.", I then say after a moment's reflection. "I feel terrible about you sleeping here all this time."

Val shrugs and rises to her feet. "If you insist, I surely won't say no to this."

She places the box back into the cabinet and then goes upstairs, leaving me to myself.

"Good night!", I call after her, but receive no response.

Something catches my eye, some sort of a plate in the back of the room, its surface reflecting the fire's glow.

I grab my cane and slowly rise to my feet; the short walk across the room already takes me to my limit and I nearly fall twice, but I'm proud of myself when I reach it. It's a thin sheet of polished steel, probably functioning as a mirror for Val. While all other pieces of furniture in the house are old and worn-out, this one has been well taken care of.

I stare at my own reflection, looking for the face I know, but hardly recognise myself. Hollow cheeks and eyes, a skin as pale that it almost appears transparent and in contrast to it, my dark, dull and lifeless hair falling to my shoulders. My skin is tightly strung over protruding bones with hardly any flesh in between. I look like a living corpse.

My hand is shaking as I reach out and touch the cold surface, the unwanted tears filling my eyes again. How could this happen? I ask myself over and over again. How could this happen to me?

The shock of this discovery has one good outcome: it further encourages me to take back control over myself. The weeks pass by, and while the temperatures slowly rise and the snow melts away, I fight to regain power over myself. My makeshift cane and I, both malfunctioning and discarded, soon become inseparable, exploring every inch of the house. I start by walking from one wall to the next, having to rest often; then advance into the kitchen and back; manage the stairs after a few attempts; and lastly, with Val's permission and supervision, who until that point chose to distance herself from my training, even walk the short distance to the small barn located a couple of feet away from the main building. In my enthusiasm, I try to open its door, only to find it locked.

"None of your business.", Val growls and wordlessly guides me back to the house.

She doesn't comment on my efforts, but silently acknowledges them by adding more dried meat to my diet; sometimes, when the weather allows her to, she even takes a long walk to the next village and buys some fresh one, together with some eggs and cheese. It's a mystery to me where she gets the money from, and it remains unsolved. I know that she sometimes sells some of the vegetables from her garden and occasionally the herbal infusions she brews against all kinds of sicknesses, but her garden is dead and meat expensive during the winter and the equally cold and fruitless spring.

"Good thing I don't believe in witches." I jest one day while sipping one of her awfully bitter teas. "Because you'd surely qualify as one."

"Perhaps you should start, then.", she only answers, a mysterious smile on her lips.

Every night before I go to sleep, I sit down in front of the mirror and observe my reflection. Not out of vanity, but for the mere wish to see any change in it. It takes some time, but I find it. My general condition rapidly improves over the weeks, I soon manage short-distance walks without the cane and don't have to rest as often as before when walking around the cabin and its close surroundings. The edges of my bones soon aren't as sharp and defined anymore, as the thin sheet of mere skin covering them is increasingly supported by a stronger layer of meat and, though still ghostly pale, my skin slowly regains some of its former glow.

I start to assist Val with the easier chores, dust off the shelves and help her prepare the meals. Later, when the cold has finally left, we replant her garden and sometimes even eat outside. My nights are still restless and haunted by nightmares and twisted memories, but I usually manage to ban the unwanted thoughts to the back of my mind during the day.

One evening in May, when I'm stowing away some of Val's old bottles, I hear a very soft and quiet knock on the door. I freeze, not sure whether I imagined the sound or not and listen anxiously. No one ever comes out here. Val and I are both outcasts, there is absolutely nothing anyone could ever want of us, especially at such a late hour.

There, this time the sound is louder, more resolute and demanding. I start sweating, my heart pounding against my chest like a caged bird fighting to break free. Flee, my senses scream at me.

"Val?"

My voice is higher than usual, I fail to conceal the fear that's building up inside of me. "Val, there's someone at the door."

"Let them in."

She sounds calm and indifferent, the complete opposite of me.

I turn around to face her, my stomach churning and I suddenly feel very sick.

"But..." I whisper quietly, fighting the urge to run away and hide. If I could run. "What if it's them?"

She blows another billow of smoke into the air and watches me with a slightly amused expression.

"Who are you more afraid of, Templar girl? The ones who burned the cross into your flesh or the ones who burned it into your mind? Open the door."

I hesitate for another second or two, refusing to even ask myself that question, let alone give her the satisfaction of answering it, then turn back towards the door and reach for its knob, my hand shaking.

The cabin, until that moment, seemed like a fortress to me, impenetrable and safe, but its walls are beginning to crumble.

For some reason, I'm suddenly painfully aware of my appearance, of how the person on the other side of the door will see me. What if it's really a member of the Order? He'll see me in my worn out dress, the frayed rope around my waist functioning as a belt, my bare feet and messily tied back hair and the petty chance of me ever being allowed to talk to Haytham for just one last time would instantly vanish.

My hand touches the cold wood and I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then I tear open the door in one swift, determined movement.

The girl before me flinches so hard, she nearly drops the small bag she's carrying, her puzzled expression mirroring my own baffled look.

"Oh." she says, seemingly surprised to see anyone but Val open the door. She quickly gathers her wits and forces a smile, which can't fully hide the tension in her body language and the fear in her eyes.

"I... Didn't know Val had another... Patient today. My apologies, I probably should've announced myself... But it's no bother, I don't mind waiting for my turn, really."

"Come in.", Val calls somewhere being me, her voice unusually soft.

I step aside and let her in, casting a questioning look in Val's direction. She rises from her armchair and comes over to greet our late visitor.

The girl lowers her hood and the light cast by the fire falls on delicate features and golden hair, which seems to glow by itself. She's evidently from a wealthy household, well-fed and dressed in fine materials. What is someone like her doing here, in the middle of the forest at the end of the world and miles away from any civilisation?

"Sit," Val ushers her to the nearest chair and then takes the one opposite. "Tell me what it is."

Our visitor looks at her for a second, and then back to me, still standing next to the door, uncertainty flaring up in her dark eyes.

"That's Julie. She's another kind of patient to me, you needn't worry about her.", Val explains calmly.

She nods hesitantly, her eyes still fixed on my emaciated features, and then slowly turns back to the old woman beside her.

"My friend Lizzie.", she begins, staring at her folded hands in her lap. "She was here a few months ago and told me about you. That you're good at..."

The girl seems to struggle for words, nervously kneading her fingers.

"I understand. How long has it been?"

Val's tone of voice hasn't changed in the slightest, but her eyebrows are slightly furrowed now.

"About ten or twelve weeks now, I realised it too late.", the girl responds, her voice barely a whisper. "I considered going to our local doctor, but-"

"Doctor!", the old woman scoffs with such sudden anger, that both the girl and I flinch at the harshness of her voice. "Fine doctors they are! Bunglers, all of them. They're just like their beloved leeches, they suck the life out of everyone they touch and the patient returns home in a worse state than before. I piss on those so-called healers!"

We both gape at her, completely puzzled by her outburst.

"Have you felt the quickening yet?", she continues as of nothing happened, now back in her professional calm voice.

"I... I'm not...I don't...think so."

The old woman's blue eyes narrow a bit, piercing the poor girl with her gaze.

"You don't think so?"

"I'm...I'm...", she continues stuttering, desperately looking in my direction for help. "I don't know, I might have."

Val heaves herself out of her chair and waves her hand in my direction, indicating me to follow her.

"I'll need your help with this.", she tells me while heading for the other end of the room.

"Help with what?"

She doesn't answer. With joint efforts, we heave the wooden table closer to the fire, where there's more light and Val spreads a tablecloth over it while sending me to fetch some water.

I struggle a bit with the heavy bucket and it takes me a few minutes to return to the living room, where Val is cleaning something that vaguely reminds me of the torture instruments they first tried in the dungeon, before discovering that drowning me was far more effective. She's not using water or soap to clean them like anyone would expect, but something from a bottle with a clear substance in it, strongly smelling like some spirit of a kind.

The girl watches her with terror, her hands clutching at her dress' fabric as if seeking shelter in it. There's an empty glass and a bottle of Brandy in front of her.

"Lizzie... Lizzie said that you only gave her a potion of a sort and... and..."

A loud snort escapes the old woman's mouth, almost rolling her eyes at that.

"Your friend Lizzie was in her fifth week and I'm not a witch. This potion was a mere mix of herbs to help bring down her flower, for which it's too late in your case. I'd risk your death with it."

I'm very slowly beginning to understand what it is she intends to do.

"Val!", I gasp in shock. "You can't be serious about this!"

Even Benjamin Church, who by far isn't a prime example for a good surgeon, would consider this madness. And the little knowledge of medicine I have comes from him.

"Why?", she snaps. "Because it's illegal? What other option does she have besides being publicly shamed for carrying a bastard child?"

Our visitor, who hasn't spoken a word since beginning to realise that she can't escape her situation, buries her face in her hands, her whole body shaking.

"Crying won't do you any good, child. Should've been more careful who you let into your bed."

I shoot an angry look at her, which she ignores. The girl herself doesn't seem to have heard her, or at least doesn't show any reaction to her words, now completely slumped in her chair.

Carefully, not to further disturb her, I lean over to Val and hiss: "You don't have the right to jump to conclusions when you have no idea what exactly happened!"

She casts me one of her half scornful, half amused glances she always puts on when she thinks I'm being stupid or naïve.

The words stick in my throat, heavy as lead. "Hasn't it crossed your mind that she might have been..."

I can't finish the sentence. It's such a simple word, yet impossible for me to pronounce. Saying it would mean to somehow acknowledge it, allow it back into my mind and life and accept the shame and humiliation and pain that comes with it.

To my surprise, she does not reply at all, not even with one of her usual snappy comments, just gives me a sharp look and then turns back to her patient.

"Now's the time to decide.", she calls over to her earnestly.

The girl really doesn't have much of a choice, so she reluctantly stands and walks over to the table. I can't help but admire her strength, there's fear in her eyes and her porcelain skin has turned ashen at the prospect of what she'll have to endure in the following hours, but she maintains a straight posture and I don't detect any tears on her cheeks.

Val commands her to take off most of her clothing and lie down on the table, where she begins to examine the girl's body, gently pressing her fingers into her belly and breasts, takes a look at her most visible veins and turns her head to the side to check her eyes. She does it all in silence while I stand next to her and wait for orders.

Each of her movements is experienced and resolute, she doesn't hesitate even for a second, as if she has done this a thousand times before.

Then come the fetters and my stomach immediately turns upside down at the sight of them. They're ropes, not the rusty chains they used on me, but I still press my teeth together at the sight of Val tying the girl to the table, legs and arms spread and without a chance of fighting or running away.

The water bucket in my hand suddenly feels incredibly heavy and I feel my throat tighten, a pair of invisible hands choking me.

I close my eyes, trying to blend out the memories that threaten to tear down the protective walls behind which I have locked them, flood back into my mind and sweep away what little sanity I still have left.

For a split second, I see myself there on the table, naked and scared and with my wet hair sticking to my skin and the tears mixing with the cold water.

In this instant, I'm both tormenter and victim at the same time.

I open my eyes again, taking a deep breath. This isn't the right time, I won't let it back into my mind, it's the only way I can prevent it from causing me any further harm.

Val has her instrument in hand, up close it looks somewhat like an iron skewer with a rather sharp end. The girl whimpers, staring at the ceiling with widened eyes, not able to hide her terror any longer.

I gently put my hands on her shoulders, ready to hold her down with what little strength I can muster.

Another deep breath.

Let her be strong, I beg, though I'm not sure who it is I'm asking.

Be strong.


	8. Chapter 7

We sit by the fireplace later on, Val yet again with her pipe, the second time this night, and I with a cold cup of tea, in complete silence, with her staring at the ceiling and me into the flames, both lost in thought.

The mystery of the barn has been lifted, it functions as a private chamber for her patients to recover from the procedure.

"Why not let her sleep upstairs?", I asked the old woman after putting the girl to bed. The poor creature was white as a sheet and refused to speak a word. She didn't really seem to be aware of our presence or what was happening to her, enduring it all without protest, her mind too occupied to even acknowledge the situation.

"I don't usually let patients sleep in my bed. It creates a healthy distance between me and them", she answered earnestly. "Losing a child is never easy, they need a bit of time to accustom themselves with the pain of their decision."

Didn't seem like much of a choice to me, but I know too little of the situation to hold the right to judge.

I tilted my head sideways, slightly raising my eyebrows. "Except me."

Val only shrugged. "Never had a situation like this before, where someone needed intensive care for such a long period of time."

To my shame, the surgical intervention isn't what keeps me occupied that late night, but a much more self-centred thought that leaves me no peace ever since it took root in my mind.

While I know it's the girl in the barn I should be thinking about, probably mourning the loss she suffered, I can't find the strength to focus on her, not with the unyielding question mark in my head.

It's unclear to me which moment of the indisputably eventful evening functioned as the exact trigger, only realising it's full impact when the feeling started gnawing at me, the doubt and the fear that unfurled earlier and immediately ate its way through my mind like a rapidly spreading disease.

It's the uncertainty, the _what if,_ the fear of being proven right.

Val disappears behind another billow of smoke and I nearly open my mouth to ask her the question she knows the answer to and I don't, but it feels like I've lost my ability to speak.

She must've sensed my discomfort, because now, in her usual straightforward way, she bluntly says "If you keep struggling for words but never voice whatever it is that bothers you this much, you'll choke on them."

She's right. I take a deep breath, knowing that it's either now or never.

"You... Can you detect symptoms of pregnancy on any woman?"

That catches her off guard, her eyes widen in surprise and there's a glimpse of shock in them when she realises what my question might imply.

"I don't want your pity!", I hasten to add before she can say anything. "Just clarification."

She pinches her brows and narrows her eyes at me, seemingly having forgotten the pipe in her hand.

"You're not pregnant."

Relief, but not yet certainty.

"How can you be sure?"

Val very nearly rolls her eyes, but then decides against it and purses her lips instead. "Because you came here half-dead, wounded and malnourished, which is no state in which a woman can become pregnant. And because you have been here for months without showing a single sign of carrying a child."

The feeling still remains and my voice grows more and more desperate with each word.

"But what if the process was only paused? What if..."

"That's not how pregnancy works, child."

I don't care about her patronising behaviour anymore, it's nowhere near as important as the certainty I long for. "Please Val, can you have a look? Just a quick one?"

She sighs deeply and then nods.

"When was the last time you've bled?"

Her voice has changed back into the calm and professional tone of when she examined the girl earlier.

I reflect upon that carefully, going back in time step by step. When _was_ the last time? The cell? Could very well be, the blood and pain would have just been another minor addition to the whirlpool of agony, probably swallowed by the dragon as well and thus going unnoticed by me.

"I'm not sure.", I confess to her. "It's all blurred."

She nods and sets the pipe aside. "Clothes off."

The examination takes much less time than the last, it seems safe from the start and she just does the rest for my sake.

But it helps. She explains the signs she's looking for and why it's absolutely impossible for me to share the girl's fate.

"It's not good that you haven't started bleeding again."

There's genuine concern on her face as she helps me back into my clothes.

"Why?", I respond, too occupied with my own relief to give her statement much thought.

"Because if it doesn't return..."

For the first time since I met her, she seems to be struggling for words. "It might be that you won't ever be able to bear children."

I nod mechanically, unsure what else to do. Some part of me must've expected it. Having children of my own was never something I much thought about, but there was always the possibility, the option of a family if I chose to. And now, I might even have lost that alternative. It's a hard blow, but it's something so unfamiliar that I don't know how to react to it, so I feign that I don't care and ban it from my mind, safe behind yet another wall. Val sees right through my pretence, but doesn't comment on it any further.

We sit there in a now uncomfortable silence for some time, before she unexpectedly changes the subject.

It seems to have been occupying her for some time, but apparently she never found the right time to address it.

"You have asked me many questions, but I'm still waiting for you to voice the one you've been asking yourself ever since you realised my face was the only one you could expect next to your bedside."

Haytham again, another unanswered question I don't want to talk about, not even with her. I turn my head away, not wanting her to see how painfully right she is. Even if I asked, to this she can't know the answer, however hard I might wish she did so I wouldn't have to face him personally to finally understand.

"I already know the answer to that one."

It's an outright lie, I don't know anything, I only suspect. The Order doesn't tolerate failures and I'll still have to wait for what future they have chosen for me, if they'll allow me to leave in peace or will need to make an example of me as a warning to all the other potential failures to be careful.

Where I was certain they just decided to let me die a few months ago, when I had traded all hope of forgiveness for despair, I'm completely in the dark now. Haytham sent Shay to retrieve me from the prison and bring me here, so he didn't want me to die just yet. Why he did it is still a mystery to me, but something tells me I'll find out sooner rather than later, because he never does anything without ulterior motives, and the fact that I'm still alive, sitting here right now staring at my cold cup of tea can only mean that he's not done with me just yet.

The letter arrives roughly a month later, a plain white envelope, which probably wouldn't raise any suspicion if it weren't for the unmistakable cross emblazoned on its red wax seal. It's delivered by an equally ordinary looking bearer, a scruffy, bearded frontiersman watching Val mistrustfully and only reluctantly handing over the letter after she reaches out her hand and gives him one of her best contemptuous looks. I feared and awaited it in equal measure, sitting opposite of Val now and watching her as she unseals and reads it, careful to maintain both a stony expression and straight posture to hide my inner turmoil. _Conceal what you're truly thinking_ , she never misses a chance to advise me and I intend to listen to her.

The broken cross reminds me of my own cross, another seal of a kind affixed to my back, carrying Canterbury's message, a reminder to me and a warning to Haytham. He needs to know and he needs to understand. Because this message I cannot throw away or forget, I'll carry it with me until my last day on this earth, it will only fade when they finally bury it with my mortal remains. _If_ someone bothers to bury me at all.

I resist the urge to snatch the paper from her fingers, or demand of her to hand it to me. She knows it's mine, but I don't have the privilege of privacy in this house.

There are two possible outcomes it can bring with it, either this is my official expulsion - if it were a death sentence they wouldn't send a letter but an executioner -, or an offer of a sort, which - since they not only bothered to free me from imprisonment, but also ensured my survival by bringing me here - I consider more likely. Not that I cherish any false hopes about my membership, I know the little reputation in the Order I possessed is damaged beyond repair, but at least they have the decency to offer me a chance to say my piece.

Val folds the letter, lifts her gaze and watches me with a thoughtful look on her face.

"They'll be here in a bit over a week."

She observes my reaction, looking for any clues about what emotions the news might provoke in me.

I can't help but lower my eyes, not daring to hold her gaze for too long. Truthfully, I don't know how I to respond to it myself. It's certainly sooner than expected, yet I feel neither excitement nor anxiety. Just a lump in my throat.

"Good that I have no bags to pack.", I answer dryly.

"You know you don't have to go.", she answers with an earnest expression on her face. "You're still young enough to go your own way, find a good ship and leave all of it behind."

It's a concept I also briefly considered when I realised they weren't finished with me yet. But however far I run, it's the memories and unanswered questions that will haunt me, not the Templar themselves.

"There's no point in escaping it."

Val leans back in her chair, shrugging but casting me a rather disapproving glance.

I know what she's thinking, that I'm weak for returning to the person she thinks responsible for all my misery, that I'm digging my own grave, a naive little girl running straight back into the lion's den. What she doesn't know is what agony having spent all those months asking silent questions and never getting an answer brought me, that this letter is the only way I might finally make my peace with what happened. And she doesn't know that it wasn't _him_ who brought this upon me.

 _Ten days._

Such a short amount of time compared to the previous months of waiting, yet I suddenly wish they could've waited for a bit longer.

 _Nine days._

I lie awake every night with a pounding heart and an occupied mind, when there's enough time and silence around me for my thoughts to wander back to the approaching day of my departure, looming over the house like a gathering storm on the horizon.

 _Eight days._

Rain dances on the roof, pattering on the wood like fingers against a door.

The anxiety brings back the nightmares.

 _Five days_.

The fast passing of time both scares and irritates me as it's usually the opposite case when you wait for something.

I spend more time in front of the mirror, trying to see past the months and mentally recreate how I looked like before my imprisonment, just to identify how drastic the changes must look like to someone who hasn't seen me since.

 _Three days._

Val is even more taciturn and on edge than usual and seems to be in a constant surly mood whenever I say something to her. I fear she's mad at me for returning to the Order after having spent so much time and effort with nursing me back to health after I've only just gotten away with my life, or hurt that I leave her all of a sudden, completely disregarding the months we lived together, that she might consider my choice as having been made too easily and swiftly for it to be well-conceived.

But she's never been one to talk if she doesn't feel like it, so I leave her be.

 _One day._

"I don't know how to thank you.", I tell her the evening before, drawing my knees to my chest in my usual spot next to the fireplace.

"You know I was paid.", she replies blankly, leaned back in her armchair, her face betraying neither emotion, nor a particular interest in making conversation, but this time I don't relent as easily as usual.

Not with this being my last chance to make her realise that I owe her much more than just my life.

"You were only paid to keep me alive."

I expect no answer and I don't receive one, she only casts me a sideways glance, her blue eyes appearing almost black in the fire's dim glow. Maybe there's some sort of recognition in them, or maybe just the usual indifference.

Either way, I've said all I wanted to say and by doing that, cut the last bond still tying me to this place, so I rise from the chair and go to bed without another word of farewell, spending another sleepless night with trying to sort out the thoughts ceaselessly racing through my brain.

Not that I'd find anything suitable to say to her anyway.

I'm not surprised it's Shay who comes to pick me up early in the next morning, in an inconspicuous wooden carriage pulled by two brown mares.

Another minor disappointment, but not unexpected.

The coachman turns out to be the same man who brought me the letter, presumably the only one of our agents familiar with this remote area.

Val is also already awake and eyeing the two men with her usual unfriendliness, lingering in the doorframe.

Shay seems strangely relieved when he sees me waiting there, as if he expected to find a corpse rather than a living being upon his arrival.

"You look much better."

It's more a statement than a compliment. I _must_ look much better than the day he found me, filthy and half-dead, wearing nothing but the equally filthy, torn rags, hardly covering my emaciated body, my hair a wild, matted mess. Barely even human.

"I've been in good hands."

He looks like he sincerely doubts that, but doesn't comment on it any further.

The old woman clears her throat behind me and wordlessly stretches out a hand. Shay reaches into his pocket and produces a small pouch, handing it to her.

She immediately opens it and drops a few coins into her palm, scrutinising them before nodding and putting them away again, completely ignoring Shay and turning to me instead.

"You can tell your Grand Master our debt is settled, payment or no."

I don't bother asking her what debt she's talking about, just nod.

"I won't forget this.", I tell her, following a need to give my last words to her some sort of significance.

"Of course you will, on your way now."

It might just be a figment of my imagination, but her tone doesn't seem as harsh as usual, a soft note in it that she doesn't quite manage to hide.

In this fraction of a second when our eyes meet, I'm sure she wants to say something, a few words of appreciation or farewell, but she just blinks and quickly turns away, locking the door behind her.

Shay casts me a quick, questioning look, his eyebrows slightly raised, but fortunately doesn't say anything.

"Let's go.", I murmur, tightening my grip on the cane until my knuckles turn white and walk over to the coach.

The single step leading into its interior turns out to be too high for my feeble and shaky legs and even after the weeks of walking exercise, I don't manage it on my own.

Shay quietly offers me a hand and I hesitantly take it, immediately noticing how careful he is to maintain a certain distance to me, his grip gentle and loose enough for me to easily withdraw my hand should I want to.

He waits until I'm seated and then climbs in and sits down opposite of me, each of his movements keen on avoiding skin contact, or even coming too close to me.

What does he think will happen if he does? What do _I_ think will happen?

It's not hard to figure out why he might behave this way. The familiar sense of shame and humiliation sweeps through me and I quickly avert my eyes, turning my head away and staring out of the window instead, for fear that he might see the chaos behind my controlled facade if I dare meet his gaze for too long.

 _Does he know?_

How could he? No one but me and Val know and I'm not even sure _she_ figured out the whole truth, just the parts obvious to her. But she wasn't in the cell, she didn't see me there. So I should rather ask myself how _much_ he might know.

The water still remains my most well-kept secret, mine and the dragon's. And no one else can know of it. I close my eyes and search for him, the sleeping beast inside of me, the ever-present guardian, but I fail, however hard I try to wake him. The pain would be an acceptable price to pay if it only took away the anxiety.

But it doesn't so I clench my jaws and continue to stubbornly keep my eyes fixed on the passing landscape, watching the woods slowly turn into hills and smaller villages, as the rising sun slowly dispels the cold morning fog.

To my relief, Shay doesn't force any conversation, pretending to sleep instead. Considering how much we're shaken by even the smallest bump in the rocky, uneven road the coach furiously rattles over, I don't think it very likely for him to _actually_ manage to get some rest on this trip, but am beyond grateful that he found a way of granting me at least some bit of comfort despite being locked in a rather confined space with him.

We cross a bridge over a torrential river, after which the narrow, rocky road merges into to a much larger and more passable one, on which we stay for some time until the coachman stops at a small station to replace the exhausted horses with new ones.

I doze off a few times, but immediately feel the shadows grasp for me, so I force myself to stay awake, pull up my knees to my chest and lean my head against the hard wood in an attempt to find some comfort. My thoughts wander off to the last times I travelled in such a vehicle, a long time ago. Having been unconscious the whole journey, I don't remember how I was brought to Val, so that doesn't really count. I'll have go back even further, past the blurry weeks of locked-up darkness. There's a brief flicker of a memory, shrouded in pain and blindness, the rattle of hooves and unfamiliar voices dragging me through the dark. The arrival. And before that? Another arrival, when I was still blinded by childish dreams of acknowledgement and praise.

Thinking about it, each arrival also goes hand-in-hand with a departure, so your view on the journey therefore solely depends on how much you're looking forward to what awaits you on the end of it. A struggle between excitement and sorrow, whichever outweighs ultimately influencing your overall state of mind.

 _And which of the two is it now?_

I ponder that question for a while, before reaching the conclusion that it's either the perfect balance between the two, or neither excitement _nor_ sorrow that I feel. I don't know what I should grieve, not having lost anything by getting on this coach, but don't have much to particularly look forward to either. Except maybe finally coming to an end with all of what's happened and perhaps even managing to fight off the demons haunting me at night.

We pass a few other coaches and riders on horseback and I immediately duck my head away. The months of secludedness with only the old woman as company have created such a strong feeling of disconnection in me that the world around us could just as well have stopped existing, and the sight of so many strangers at once makes me almost shy away from it, like the ever-present instinct of distancing yourself when you're in a group of people you know you'll never belong with. It feels utterly strange to see these ordinary people on their ways, oblivious to what life might have in store for them and content in going about their everyday business. The sight scratches and itches like an uncomfortable garment, everything in me resists the insight that while my life was completely shattered, the world just kept spinning for everyone else.

And yes, if I travelled back in time to that fateful day I first laid eyes on the Canterbury estate, it could just as well be me in one of those coaches, unknowing of the storm looming on the horizon.

What a wonderful day it had been, warm and friendly, full of hopes and expectations.

I had wondered about my task and how long it might take me to accomplish it, what might await me at my destination and what people I would have to deal with. Not a single thought was wasted on the possibility of failure.

If it hadn't been for Gus, I probably would've gotten impatient and ruined the mission even earlier than I did, out of boredom or ignorance.

My eyes shoot open and the air in my lungs suddenly feels incredibly thick and heavy. Shame constricts my throat and I struggle to breathe.

 _How could I forget about him?_

How didn't I, after all this time, spend a single thought to what might have happened to him? Was I really so completely wrapped up in the layers of my own self-pity, that I not once considered _his_ fate?

"Gus!", I all but yell, abruptly snapping Shay out of his slumberous state of contemplation.

Ignoring his bewildered expression, I lean forward, nearly going as far as grabbing his lapels in my urge for an answer.

"Augustus Livingstone, the other agent I worked with, the one I gave the letters to!"

He pinches his eyebrows in confusion, still completely in the dark about what exactly I expect him to say.

"Aye?"

"Do you know what happened to him? Did he manage to get out of there in time?"

 _Please let him be alive._

Shay doesn't say anything for a moment, looking for words, but not quite finding them. In the end, he just quietly says. "I don't know, lass. Never heard that name before."

I slump back into my seat and suddenly wish I never opened my mouth in the first place.

"I'm sorry.", he says and I believe him, though I don't know what exactly he's sorry for. With the Rite's increasing number of members, the likelihood of someone of his rank knowing every single one of the minor agents is more than improbable.

"Shouldn't have asked. Not your fault.", I mumble under my breath, keeping my eyes fixed on the dirt covering my shoes.

"Ain't yours either."

I chuckle humourlessly. "How can you know?"

As expected, he remains silent and I return to staring out of the window.

They didn't catch Gus after Canterbury sent his guards after him, perhaps he somehow managed to flee. Or they found him afterwards, when I had already been taken care of.

I don't dare to be optimistic anymore, it's easier this way than to embrace the possibility of yet another disappointment.

 _Maybe I should get used to losing people_ , I think bitterly, but know that this won't make the guilt gnawing at me disappear. That it won't vanish just because some part of me wants it to, no matter how hard I try to ban it from my thoughts or convince myself not to care, and that this, however often I might experience it, won't ever change.

We reach the port of Edenton by nightfall and I only now realise how far away they had brought me from the Canterbury estate after I fell from favour.

The Morrigan is gently bobbing on the relatively calm water, the whole port and sea stretching to the horizon bathed in the warm light of a breathtaking sunset, painting the sky and water in hues of orange and yellow. Far above our heads, where the sun's fiery glow yields to the night's dark blue sky and the clouds wear a deep shade of red, the first stars have appeared, silently taking their predecessor's place in the sky.

I stand there for a moment, comfortably leaning on my cane and drinking in every detail of the stunning sight. A year ago, I probably wouldn't have spared much of a thought about it, there would always be other sunsets following, other times to simply enjoy the things I took for granted. But now, after barely having escaped death's cold embrace, everything is a gift to me, a privilege I might never be able to enjoy again.

The thought of once again entering a ship and exposing myself to the temperament of the endless floods earned me some sleepless nights in the past week and I'm growing more nervous by the minute, while I slowly follow Shay through the clutter of market stalls, taverns and a few dilapidated barracks. There aren't many people left on the streets, only the last few traders, still busy with packing away their goods and closing their stalls, not paying us much attention. One of them reaches for my hand to offer me a bracelet, but quickly lets go after he notices my panic-stricken look and feeble attempts to free myself from his grip.

I quickly turn away and almost run to catch up with Shay, my heart drumming in my chest and only my cane preventing my knees from buckling under my weight.

The short distance from where the coach dropped us off to the docks is the longest I walked in months and something I didn't consider beforehand.

However much I force my aching legs and burning lungs to hurry, it feels as if he's running and impossible for me to close the distance between us, though in reality it's more of a stroll for him. He doesn't seem to realise, not looking back once to check if I'm still there, his thoughts probably somewhere else.

 _Too slow._

I grit my teeth and quicken my pace a bit more, mentally thanking Val for the cane functioning as my third and most reliable leg.

The small shacks and empty stalls give way to the piers connecting land to water at last and I can suddenly feel the slightly swinging wooden planks beneath my feet and the rhythmical sound of the waves underneath them, softly breaking on the shore.

The world around me starts swaying.

I take a deep breath and concentrate on setting one foot in front of the other, the cane's short _tap_ always in between, assuring me, reminding me that it's time for another step forward.

There's still too many differences for my walls to completely collapse, but I feel them crumble and groan as the memories inside them try to escape with increasing force.

 _It's different, Julie._

No bonds restrict me save my own weakness and there's still too much light to really fit the raven-black darkness Angus threw me into when he tied me to his chair, yet I feel dizzier with each step, my head starts spinning and I nearly lose my footing.

The taste of blood and musty smell of the cell replaced by a fresh, salty breeze, caressing my cheek.

Step. _Tap._ Next step.

The pier is at least sixteen feet wide and the rational part of my brain keeps reassuring my shaking legs that there is no possibility to fall off of it as long as I keep walking in the middle, but the irrational part insists that I'm walking on a rope over a gaping abyss, and that one misstep will immediately lead to my death.

 _Keep your breathing under control._

I wonder who's voice it is I hear in my head.

Each step more cautions than the previous one.

 _Tap._

One foot's heel follow the other's toes in a perfect line.

Breathe.

 _Tap._

Pause.

I lift my head and see her magnificent red sails, the sun's dying light setting them on fire.

Exhale.

"Everything alright?", Shay asks in a distracted voice, waiting for me to walk over the plank connecting the docks to the Morrigan's deck.

I manage a nod and peer over the edge at the waves, completely entranced by the sensation seizing me at the sight of them.

It feels like standing on a bridge and leaning over the railing, when you stare into the gaping chasm and suddenly begin to hallucinate how it would be like to jump, a small part of you craving it.

A sort of vertiginous excitement rolling over you as you stare and imagine, but never really dare to take that final step forward.

This is what the sight of the deep, dark water beneath my feet causes me to feel, a fierce curiosity of what would happen if I jumped. Would it be like the prison, or maybe even somehow liberating or peaceful? Not that I'm brave enough to find out.

Shay must've warned the crew what to expect beforehand, they all go to great efforts to be as nice and considerative as possible, but I still see the shocked and pitiful glances they exchange when they think I'm not looking. Even Gist's usual carefree and playful attitude seems forced, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, the "Love the new haircut!" insincere.

I hate the way they look at me, like a badly injured animal one can only shoot dead to free of its pain.

There's a comfortable spot on the rear deck, far away from the others, where I sit down and watch the sun descend into its watery grave. The reflection in the water makes it look like there are two suns moving towards each other, until they merge into one when it reaches the horizon. For a brief moment, the two halves form one whole again, then it disappears and the night takes full control. The soft breeze from before has transformed into a chilly gust and I feel gooseflesh crawling up my skin like a thousand insects.

I'm not yet ready to retire below deck, where there's little to no light and the air stuffy. Out here I have the moon and stars, the fresh air and the rhythmical sound of the waves around me. And I'm practically alone, most of the sailors having retired to their hammocks by now.

The crow's nest thrones on its mast, calling for me to climb up into its arms, so close but impossible to reach.

What if I'll never climb a mast again?

I consider getting myself a blanket and sleeping outside, but quickly decide against it. The weather on the high seas can be treacherous and I can't risk falling ill in my momentary weak state, for a little cold could very well be the end of me now. Though I'd probably appreciate the irony of it, having survived months of pain and suffering only to succumb to a simple cough.

In the end, my stubbornness quickly yields to the cold and I hesitantly make my way below deck, my feet growing heavier with every step downwards and an iron fist choking me.

Was the air down here always so stuffy?

I weave my way through the cramped rows of hammocks, softly so I wouldn't wake any of the sleeping sailors, their silhouettes hardly visible in the dark.

The smell of salt mixes with the odour of the unwashed men and wet wood, the air so thick that I only take shallow, hasty breaths.

Even my sleeping spot seems more narrow and unfriendly than before.

It takes me four attempts until I manage to climb into it and then I lie there, panting and with my hair and clothing sticking to my sweaty skin, staring into the dying light of a small oil lamp a couple of feet away, which casts flickering shadows on the walls.

Nausea crawls up my throat.

 _Pull yourself together. Breathe. Take control._

I close my eyes, the loud snoring around me is almost like a soothing lullaby after the months and months of deafening silence.

It's worse than expected, I'm dead tired, but it takes me hours to finally fall asleep, my dreams haunted by the clicking of belts and Newt's sardonic laughter.

And the bonds again. Twisting my limbs into unnatural positions, pressing me back in the chair, tightening with my efforts to escape them while the beast roars and engulfs me in pain.

Restraining me while a thousand hands crawl over my body like spiders, holding me down and searing my skin with their touches.

I scream and scream to blend out his voice, telling me the same thing over and over again.

 _Turn around._

 _Turn around._

 _Turn around._

I'm awake and I know I'm back in the cell, that everything was just a foolish dream, another creation of a mind irredeemably infected with a rapidly spreading madness.

But I don't want to see it, want to believe my own lies, turn my head away from the truth of the torchlight on the wall and fight the hands holding me down.

I kick and scream and try to see them clearly, but my vision's too blurry and my mind too churned up, my ears ringing with the sound of tearing fabric and I kick harder until my leg is suddenly free and some of the spiders vanish and I twist and turn my body and I fall, free of the the ties and the chair gone and I'm _flying,_ nothing but air around me, nothing but air touching me, nothing but air holding me.

I hit the ground hard, a sharp pain in my shoulder, but I ignore it because I know that if stop, the spiders will come back, their sweaty, warm bodies on my skin, their legs tearing into my flesh and that this time I won't escape them, they will be prepared and they'll finish what they started.

My legs won't carry me and my eyes won't let me see, so I blindly crawl into the darkness, away from the torch and the cell and the agony waiting there for me, until my searching fingers meet a solid wall and I know that I have lost, that there is no way to for me to escape this everlasting hell and that only death's gentle grace will free me of it.

So I curl up against the wall, hide my face behind my legs and wait for my tears to dry and the pain to end. And I listen. Muffled voices in the dark, steps. A light illuminating my closed eyelids in red.

 _They're coming for_ me.

My own sobs not succeeding in blending out the other noises.

 _At least you've stopped screaming, maybe they won't find you for a time._

Time is worthless.

They're still there, lingering, waiting, neither stepping forward, nor backing away.

Spiders on a leash.

But who's on the other end of it?

 _Get the Cap'n._

I only now realise that I'm shaking.

The red intensifies, shining through my fingers, too bright for me to block it.

Closer.

As long as I keep my eyes closed, there's still a chance that none of it is true. Hearing is less reliable than seeing, blindness makes it less real.

 _Step away._

I try to press my arms onto my ears without having to move my hands away from my eyes, it's getting harder and harder to breathe. Sharp, desperate inhales followed by unrhythmical, broken exhales.

Something is blocking the light, it's suddenly dark again.

 _Julie._

Pause.

The word is tugging at the sleeves of my mind, trying to pull me back and brutally reveal the truth I'm so eager to avoid.

 _Julie, look at me._

I open my eyes and peer through my fingers.

They're the only bars in the room.

My face is wet and sticky, the scene before me strangely blurry and unfocused.

I blink a few times.

A dark silhouette crouching on the floor, more of them huddled in the back, dust dancing in the warm light of the oil lamp.

A lamp, not a torch.

Something is wrong.

I stare down at the torn linen in my lap.

Everything is wrong.

 _Look at me._

I lower my hands and look at him.

"Do you know where you are?"

A short nod is all I can muster, keeping my gaze fixed on my lap.

"Good. Can you stand?"

My fingers dig into the wood behind me as I pull myself onto my feet, shaking.

"Make way."

The sailors all step aside, maintaining a safe distance to me while I slowly follow him, head still lowered so that my hair can hide my face.

I try to blend out their voices, yet it's not hard to guess what it is they're whispering to each other.

The cold of the night cuts into my wet face like a knife, intensified by the thin film of sweat covering my body.

 _Blood, sweat and tears._

I suck it in as if having been under water for too long. It tastes too good after the stuffy uncomfortableness below deck.

"Sit."

The last time I stood here and looked up to the stars was almost a year ago.

I lean my back against the railing and focus on breathing, banning everything else from my mind.

 _Inhale, exhale, inhale._

My hands still firmly clutch the torn covers, my knuckles showing white.

 _Exhale._

"Here."

A blanket and a mug, placed before me.

"What is it?"

My voice sounds so fragile that it might break if I speak too loudly. Splinter into a million pieces and leave me forever mute. Would I still be expected to answer to him?

"Rum. It'll do you good."

 _Inhale._

I take a sip. It tastes awful, burns my mouth and throat. I take another.

 _Exhale._

"I think I'm going mad.", I say, louder now, testing.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Madness is just another way of dealing with the world as it is."

Not the answer I expected.

My belly feels warm.

 _Inhale._

I have nothing to lose.

"If Haytham asked you to kill rather than rescue me, would you have done it?"

He gives me a strange look, probably asking himself what's gotten into me.

"Not without question."

"Why?"

"Why?", he repeats, his voice slightly raised. "Because I was never a great advocate of senseless violence and killing. Where are all those questions coming from?"

That's interesting. Haytham's best and most efficient agent is opposed to killing, maybe not in general but of those he deems weak or not deserving of his blade.

Silence again.

 _Exhale._

"I don't know what to expect."

"What are you scared of?"

"Yet another disappointment."

I can hardly see his face, he's leaning against the mast, standing in its shadow.

Another sip. The alcohol burns its way down my throat, but my tense limbs slowly begin to ease again.

"Why expect anything then?"

No wonder Haytham likes him so much.

His answers follow a pattern, a schooled exchange of questions serving as answers,

concealing his real thoughts from me and therefore not exposing himself in any way, however hard I try to read him. An excellent choice for the Order.

I find myself wondering what might really be going on behind the mask of his face and the strange look in his eyes. It always brings me back to the same questions. Why is _he_ here again? And of course, why isn't the person I yearn for and fear to see at the same time. Shay's presence only further emphasises Haytham's absence.

But what if the answers to them aren't as satisfactory as I wish them to be? Maybe Haytham simply had business of his own and Shay was the best choice because of his ship and experience, both at sea and in combat? Are my expectations just wishful thinking?

Another sip, so I don't have to look at him.

"You can take my cabin until we reach New York."

 _Why do you care?_

"That won't be necessary, thank you."

"Oh come on, Julie, "

His voice now spiced with a pinch of impatience. "We both know just how necessary it is."

After the incident tonight, my cards are stacked against me.

"Where will _you_ sleep?"

That earns me an amused snort. "Now don't you worry about me, lassie."

I don't know how else to tell him, but it has been gnawing at me all the time, so I just blurt it out.

"I'm sorry."

He sighs.

"You really need to stop apologising for things you're not responsible for."

Oh, that again.

"I'm serious, if you hadn't-"

"No."

Is there anger in his voice?

"This is nothing you should have to thank me for, or anyone else for the matter."

Why is he so edgy every time this comes up? Is he hiding something from me?

I know it's useless to ask him these questions, so I remain silent and enjoy the feeling of the night breeze caressing my face.

Shay patiently waits for me to finish my drink and then gets up. He hesitates for a second or two, but then offers me his hand to help me on my feet.

I take it.

"I'll get you your cane."

Shaking my head, I take a step towards the cabin located below the quarter deck. "I can manage short-distance walks without it."

It's surprisingly cosy in there, though some of the Templar-centred decoration seems to laugh in my face. The primary colours are shades of dark red, which fit in well with the wooden furniture, with only a few golden spatters here and there, just enough to compliment the room without degenerating into the extravagant.

Maps and other rolls of parchment are scattered across the tables, books piled up against the walls and a few pieces of clothing are showing from the open drawers they were mindlessly stuffed into, but the room is still pleasantly clean and orderly compared to the mess below deck.

Tidy, but not uncomfortably so.

"Make yourself at home!"

He jokingly gestures as if we just entered the lounge of some rich mansion and subtly kicks one of the open drawers shut.

"You don't have to hide your socks from me.", I tell him in a flat voice, but not without a silent smile.

That earns me a grin and a pair of raised eyebrows and the atmosphere suddenly seems to have eased a bit.

"Do you need anything else?"

"No, tha-", I start, but then swiftly turn it into. "No, I've everything I need."

"Quick learner, eh? Get some sleep, lass. See you tomorrow."

He's almost out the door when I call out after him. "Shay?"

His head reappears in the doorframe. "Aye?"

The heavy words are hard to voice, but I force myself to do it anyway. "It... Means a lot to me that you haven't asked about what happened in the cell and-."

I struggle to look at him, anxious about what I might find there. Why have I never realised how hard it is to look someone in the eye before?

The sound of the waves outside fill our silence and when I finally dare to lift my gaze there's not contempt or pity in his eyes, but sadness.

"You might not believe me right now,", he all but whispers. "But you'll learn to live with it after a while, and then it'll get better."

And then he's gone.

He's sitting on the chair behind the desk, legs crossed, with an open book in his lap and the ever-present tricorne on his head.

The same boots, coat, neatly tied-back hair and blank expression as always.

Not a single thing about him different than the last time I saw him.

I stare at him in confusion, both wishing and fearing for him to speak, uncertain how to approach the situation myself.

This whole scene is so strikingly familiar that it threatens my grip on reality. Somehow, my brain fails to comprehend how he, after all of what's happened, remains so unchanged. How it is possible that he still looks and behaves the exact same way as before, as if the past year was only a long and vivid dream from which I'll wake up unscarred and light-hearted.

Of course, I'm completely aware of how ridiculous I'm being. Because for him, this probably _has_ been a more or less ordinary year and he has absolutely no reason to change anything from his outward appearance to his behaviour, yet I can't help but feel a little left out by how casually he sits there, reading his book as if it were just another rainy Friday afternoon at the Green Dragon.

Haytham finally lifts his eyes from the page, meeting mine with his usual, calm and thoughtful look in them.

He's not surprised, I've no doubt he knew I was awake the second I opened my eyes, but seems to have left me some time to gather myself and make the first move.

Which I don't.

I've probably imagined this scenario about a thousand times during my months of imprisonment and recovery, always screaming and yelling and accusing him of just about everything I could think of and it made me feel a bit better then, as if I'd gotten a little justice for what I went through, but now that I'm finally alone with him, it all feels wrong. It's not anger that consumes me, but sadness. Seeing him like this, in person before me, only intensifies my grief for the life that I've lost and the one that I could've had.

I'm not mourning my status as a Templar, but the piece of me I left behind in the cell.

He closes his book, carefully puts it on the desk and leans back in his chair, all without breaking eye contact. After another minute of silence in which it becomes adequately clear that I won't be the one to open my mouth first, Haytham heaves a deep sigh, raises his chin a bit and says: "You look terrible."

It's a cheap way of starting a conversation, an unnecessary statement which doesn't require any answer from me and he knows it. Perhaps he doesn't know what else to say or perhaps he just doesn't care.

I don't bother responding, just lift myself from the mattress into a sitting position and return his gaze, trying to read his face.

"Where were you, Haytham?", I ask him in a quiet, apathetic voice. Not giving him the satisfaction of seeing my weakness is the least I can do.

"Where was I when?"

 _He's playing games._ I probably shouldn't be surprised.

"Three months. I was in that dungeon for _three months._ Can you even begin to imagine how much time that is? How long it feels like?"

The awaited anger is finally flaring up in my chest, it raises my voice and narrows my eyes.

Haytham still hides behind his mask of indifference, maintaining his calm and collected tone.

"Do you expect me to personally remedy every mission gone awry, Julie? You should know better than blame me for things I took no responsibility in."

There's an underlying accusation, a drop of sourness in his reply and I know exactly what he's implying.

I clench my teeth and look away, because he's right, in the end, I've got no one else but myself to blame for what happened. But the disappointment keeps gnawing at me however hard I try to convince myself that he had no obligation to rescue me at all.

 _I did it because of you,_ I want to scream at him. _And the fact that you're sitting here right now means it wasn't all in vain._

"To answer your question.", he continues. "I mostly spent those months chasing down our misguided brothers."

I look up in surprise.

"How did you-"

It dawns upon me before I finish the sentence. "Augustus."

Haytham nods, seemingly pleased. "It's not his real name, of course, but yes, he was the initiator."

"So he's alive."

A weight I long carried finally lifts from my mind, relief flooding my veins and warmth spreading in my chest.

"He escaped and stayed hidden for a while before returning to New York to report what had happened. Didn't know the details of course, but figured out enough on his own to, together with your letters, give enough cause for an investigation."

Something still doesn't add up.

"How did you find out about the conspiracy though? He wasn't there when..."

 _When I failed._

"...found out."

His grey eyes still fixed on my face, he stays silent for a while, as if carefully considering if I am trustworthy enough for this information.

"Through questioning Alexander himself."

My eyes widen in shock. "You found Canterbury?"

"He's been taken care of, together with most of his co-conspirators. Some have fled the country but I doubt any of them will pose a great danger to our Rite anytime soon, now that their puppet master has been put out of commission."

Haytham pauses for a second, observing my reaction to the news, then continues. "It took us almost two months to find him, but he, fortunately, possessed a rather low tolerance for pain and ended up rather cooperative soon after his capture."

I should've expected them to torture him, but the thought still leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

"This seems to bother you."

It shouldn't. If they hadn't, I wouldn't be here right now but rotting in that cell, but it doesn't feel like justice at all, just another corpse to add to the heap.

"I've lost the right to judge.", I reply, leaning my back against the wood behind me.

 _The privilege of an opinion someone would bother to listen to._

He doesn't answer, just stands and starts pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back.

I narrow my eyes, watching him in silence as he halts in front of the door, leans forward, - I'm almost certain he's about to leave - reaches out a hand and picks up my wooden cane from where I left it and turns it in his hands, examining it like some exotic animal.

"I trust Val treated you well?"

A swift change of topic, as if we were only talking about the weather and he grew bored of it.

Another loose end.

"How do you know her?"

"She wouldn't tell, would she?"

There's a slight smirk on his face, he seems to have expected the old woman to keep her secrets. I consider telling him to leave her be, but then, in a moment of bitter self-satisfaction, I remember how she never granted _me_ any privacy.

"She says she considers your debt to be settled, no matter the payment."

He chuckles, turning back to me with the cane still in hand. "Does she? How interesting."

"What debt, Haytham?"

"I once inadvertently saved her life, and condemned it at the same time."

He starts pacing the room again. "She used to work as a midwife in a village buried in the heart of Pennsylvania, where she owned a small apothecary of a sort, having gathered excessive knowledge of medicinal herbs, also due to her encounters with the local Natives. I met her by accident when I was there during the campaign on Fort Duquesne. She had a quarrel with a soldier, one of Edward Braddock's men and somehow managed to stab out one of his eyes when he attacked her, but couldn't bring herself to finish what she started. As it happens, I needed to _borrow_ a uniform. So I helped her out."

He makes it sounds as if he politely asked the soldier to leave her be, while everyone who knows him can say with certainty what 'help out' usually means.

"Unfortunately, but predictably.", he continues his tale. "Val was the one accused and tried of his murder, although I made sure his body wouldn't be found. They still found her guilty and sentenced her to death."

This takes me aback, it's rather uncommon for Haytham to bother about such insignificances if there's nothing to be gained from it. The trick is to find out, _what_ the advantage was.

If I asked, he wouldn't answer me anyway.

"She was brought to the cabin in the woods to recover from her time in prison, a safe distance away from her hometown and any prying eyes. For whatever reason, she chose to remain there rather than return to a more civilised life."

He's pretending not to care or understand, but both he and I can very well assume why the old woman chose to stay in her lonely chalet, cut off from any remainder of the life she had led, except continuing a grotesque version of her previous work. I remember the look on her face when she mentioned the intense grief of losing a child, was it because she spoke from experience?

She couldn't let go of what she had lost and she couldn't move away out of fear of forging new experiences which might cover the old. And she felt indebted to Haytham, the man who saved her life and took it from her at the same time. So she stayed, stuck in the frontier in between a past she never stopped mourning and a future she feared too much to accept.

I still suspect there to be more, the issue seemed to be far more personal judging from Val's reaction, but I don't even attempt to ask him about it, knowing he'll either deny it or ignore the question like he always does when he doesn't want to give straight answers.

During the last few months, where I replayed this scenario over and over again in my head, I probably came up with at least a thousand other questions I had for him, but now that I finally have the opportunity to ask them, my head is empty like a blank sheet of paper and the further I reach for them, the more they slip away from me.

I frantically search for another topic, because I fear that if I do not keep the conversation going, he will leave and I probably won't ever have the opportunity to ask all of the questions I don't remember or dare saying out loud just yet.

In the end, I ask him the only thing I can think of.

"Why send Shay of all people?"

It's neither important, nor relevant, but something I briefly thought about during my time with Val and on the way back.

Haytham seems utterly unimpressed by that question, he immediately answers with a spark of impatience flaring up in his voice.

"Because he's my best field agent and, considering of how fast some loyalties in our Order seem to change as of late, one of the few people I can still trust not to betray me. Why are you asking?"

"I just assumed he'd have business of greater importance than escorting me from one place to the next."

Now he's really annoyed, he doesn't really show, but there are little signs of it I can only recognise because I've seen them on him countless times during meetings with various other members or informants, or caused by myself when I was being childish or stubborn or made a dumb mistake during our training sessions.

"Drowning yourself in self-pity neither helps, nor suits you."

Checkmate, I've lost. There's no point in denying it.

I avoid his gaze and concentrate on fiddling with a loose thread in the blanket, intent on keeping my eyes fixed on my fingers rather than him.

Haytham sighs deeply, massaging his temples. After a while in stubborn silence, he says: "Were that all of your questions?"

I only nod in response.

"Then I have one for you too."

No. I know exactly what he wants me to tell him. He knows all of what happened that evening, so there's only one thing left to ask.

"What happened to you?"

He won't tolerate no as an answer, but I'd rather risk his anger than tear down the wall. I'm too scared of what's behind it and what that will do to me. Not just breaking down in front of him, my composed facade crumbling and revealing the ugly truth beneath it, not even appearing weak, but the shame and humiliation I know will come with it, the disgust and the strangeness of my own body and not being able to look at myself in the mirror again.

I bury my face in my hands, violently shaking my head, my body trembling.

"I can't tell you.", I whisper soundlessly. "Please... Please don't ask me to."

He's silent and I can only imagine the condescending look he's certainly wearing on his face at the sorry sight I must be right now, but I don't dare look at him the risk of seeing my suspicions confirmed.

I press my fingers against my eyes until sparks dance in front of them, a marvellous display of exploding fireworks reserved only for me alone.

And I wait for him to leave, listen for steps and the creaking wood, the door being opened and shut again and the deafening silence of loneliness.

But I don't hear any of those things, just his quiet, steady breathing.

In the end, it's me who breaks the silence, deciding to quit delaying the inevitable.

"Will you allow me to collect my things before I leave?"

After I receive no answer, I reluctantly add. "Only a few, of course. I won't take the weapons."

He turns around, head held high and his hands clasped behind his back. Everything about him radiates the usual authority he seems to naturally carry, that often causes other people to at the very least respectfully lower their gaze as they pass by, even if they're not associated with the Templars and therefore don't know him or his importance within the Rite.

His stern, distanced collectedness, always so carefully clear of any emotion, never really bothered me until this point, it simply belonged to him, was what accentuated and characterised him, was what he was from the beginning. I never even thought about what he might hide behind the mask of his blank expression before, never wondered if he might have walls of his own and if there are times where those crumble as well.

Haytham reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and takes a few steps forward until he's standing right in front of the bed and I have to raise my head to meet his gaze.

He stretches out his hand. At first, I think he offers it to me to help me get up, but quickly realise that his hand is closed, holding out a small object. I hesitate for a small second, then open my palm and allow him to drop something into it.

"Your choice.", he says quietly.

I trail my finger along the smooth edges of the ring and the engraved cross in it, so painfully familiar and yet so strange to hold again. It's clear what the gesture means and what this little object carries with itself, almost whispering to me, as if it waited for my return to remind me of my immutable allegiance.

Val insisted that I could find my own path, build my own future outside the Order, live my own life. That there were alternatives for me, options and choices, but I don't see them. All of them would eventually lead to me needing to find a husband, another caretaker I'd depend on, another prison of a kind. Not that this would come easy anyway, considering my age and shape, there'd be enough more appealing women at every decent man's disposal than me. And even the thought of marriage scratches at doors I don't want to open, responsibilities I can't bear.

However unexpected it might be, it's not a hard choice. There's no doubt gnawing at me when I slip the ring onto my finger. It didn't perfectly fit me before, having belonged to a man with a bigger hand than mine, but now my finger looks like a child's in it and I quickly put it onto my thumb instead, where it at least doesn't immediately fall off when I lower my hand. I'll have to wear it on a chain around my neck from now on if I don't want to risk losing it.

"How did you find it?", I ask him out of interest, observing how the metal reflects the light when I turn my hand from one side to the other. "I hid it in my room."

Haytham scoffs, picking up the cane from the desk again. "Sometimes the most obvious hiding places are the hardest to find, and sometimes they are simply obvious."

He leans it against the bed and gives it a last pitiful look. "You'll have a proper replacement for this.", he adds and turns away, taking the few steps towards the door, where he turns around again, eyes dark and slightly narrowed.

"Welcome back, Julie."

The door falls shut behind him and even after he's gone I don't dare to move for a long while, scared that I might still somehow ruin the moment and make him reconsider his decision, searching for the satisfaction I longed for, but only find myself more confused than before, with the questions and unspoken words and a ring that no longer fits me.


	9. Chapter 8

Sorry for the long wait, Uni is killing me.

 **Potential trigger warnings in the end notes, spoilers though!**

Enjoy!

* * *

 _The world has lost some of its colour._

You only recognise change when you're confronted with the familiar, which simply doesn't fit anymore, like a pair of shoes you haven't worn in some time and only then realise it's your feet that have grown, not the shoes which have gotten smaller.

It hardly ever comes at a rapid pace, rather sneaking into your life so you don't notice it until it's too late, until you see it in the details, the smallest things you wouldn't even have been aware of before.

It's those insignificant details which have the largest impact on your life, the greatest significance in showing you what you've truly lost.

The past few months have been drenched in hazy shades of foggy greys, which not even the summer's radiant greens and the autumn's warm golden light could lift.

In these months, I have become a ghost.

Wandering the halls of Fort George without ever being present, barricading myself into another world I've created, a world which only exists in my head, breathing without living.

I'm haunting this place.

I see it in the faces of those I once knew, strangers to me now, quickly averting their eyes or hiding behind their forced smiles.

The days pass by without a trace of my former existence.

I don't mind the loneliness, this way I only have myself to answer to and myself to lie to.

On my first night Anette came to bathe me and broke down crying when she saw my true self, when there was no thick fabric left for me to hide in. I took her in my arms and told her not to come again, that this would be our secret. Now she's joined the sea of faces which prefer to look away rather than see the uncomfortable truth and some part of me is relieved, it's easier this way.

Sometimes a familiar face breaks the surface and smiles, waves, winks at me and I fight back the tears and nod back at them with a silent promise of avoiding them the next time.

Everything seems surreal, as if the world I once knew was only a mirror and my dagger shattered it into a thousand pieces, everything around me seems too big, the bed I lie in awake at night and the childish hopes and dreams I once had in it.

I try reconnecting myself through my journal, but my previous entries are nothing but meaningless ash, so I step over to the fireplace to burn it, but change my mind when I feel the soaring heat on my skin.

Those memories are precious.

I start a new entry instead.

Writing helps me heal, even if it's just silent talking.

 _Why is it, that putting words on paper always feels so liberating?,_ I scrawl across the blank page. _Why does it make us feel better, as if the situation changes only by writing it down. It's just words, conveniently places patches of ink on pulverised rags of cotton and linen. I assume it's the idea that our thoughts won't be lost should we forget them or die. That, even if the paper is only a silent listener, we have someone to share our secrets with when no one breathing will lend us their ear. A shared mind, while still lonely._

A few entries, struggling with the words weaving their way through my brain like roots of a sickness, the frustration caused by my inability to express the whirlpool of thoughts seething inside of me, then I have nothing left to say and abandon it again.

Even in summer, I always light the fire at night. Not necessarily because it's cold or because I'm scared of the dark, but because I enjoy the symphony of the hissing flames, always joined by the sounds of the waves crashing against the shoreline. It grants my restless mind some peace and I often spend the nighttime hours with sitting on the windowsill and staring out into the dark until my eyes have adjusted to it, watch the small specks of light coming from passing carriages and wandering boats out on the water freckle the night like lost fireflies.

Haytham checks on me sometimes, but even his visits become rarer and rarer. He kept his promise and brought me a new cane, beautifully carved and evidently from expensive wood.

I give it to a beggar on the street.

When he asks me about it, I tell him I don't need it anymore, I can walk by myself again.

In an almost ceremonial act, my fingers trail over the rough wood of the one Val gave me, every inch of it familiar, it lend me its steadiness and lead me by its patient hand while I made my first, shaky steps and learned how to use my feet again.

Then I throw it into the flames with a silent oath that it wasn't all in vain.

Regaining my strength proves a more tedious task than I expected, it takes me weeks and three meals a day until I manage my first push-up and even longer until my stamina is restored to something even remotely close to what it once was.

More nights spent on the windowsill, the blank pages of the journal spread out before me like wings, matching the blankness within me.

 _Order, Purpose, Direction._ I write enthusiastically. _There must be a purpose and direction for me as well._

Like the one before the dungeon, my beliefs and driving forces. I'll just have to find them again.

But then again, I don't know what exactly I was fighting for then, let alone anymore. No one is even remotely willing to explain anything to me any longer, because ever since I told Angus everything I knew in his chamber, I am naturally considered as someone prone to blurting out the Order's secrets on the nearest occasion. Understandable now, and perhaps even before, as I was too young to be fully involved. But what were my motivations back then? Haytham, mostly. I did not care to think about the cause we're supposedly aiding or whatever reasons most of the others must tell themselves to justify their actions, neither did I much care about consequences as long as they didn't affect me or anyone I cared about. All I needed was my oblivious trust in Haytham and his actions. Violence was justified; harshness necessary, because he always had his reasons and explanations and even if he chose silence, I knew what he did had to be right.

So what's changed? What happened to my unyielding loyalty to him?

Maybe _I'm_ the shattered mirror, not the world around me. And puzzling it all together comes with the risk of cutting myself.

The Order might not have officially expelled me, but I'm still an outcast. And yet, I stay, simply for the reason that I don't know what else to do. I have nowhere else to go, nothing else to believe in or support, no other reason to be.

A few shards of glass reassemble by themselves in a late September evening, when a hesitant, yet firm knock on my door yanks me out of my thoughts.

"Come in.", I call hesitantly, having no idea who it might be. Haytham? Or perhaps Anette changed her mind?

But my late visitor is no one I could've expected.

I feel a lump in my throat at the sight of him, standing in the door as if he's afraid to step over the threshold, awkwardly kneading the brim of a hat in his hands and looking at me with the eyes of a scolded dog.

His hair is longer and neatly combed back, his coat, waistcoat and breeches in an excellent condition, his stockings don't show a single speck of dirt and his shoes shine as if recently polished.

His face partly covered by a well-groomed moustache now.

So different to the cheeky stable boy with his dirt-encrusted boots and constant smell of sweat and horses.

And I'd still recognise him out of a thousand other people in the blink of an eye.

We stare at each other like strangers searching for anything familiar, some small feature to bring it all back.

He clears his throat.

"Sorry I didn't come earlier. I know I should've, but... I s'pose I was scared of what I might find and what I might not."

I nod mechanically, my eyes trailing him for signs of injuries, a limp maybe or if he's going easy on an arm or leg, but find nothing. If he's wounded, he knows how to hide them.

"Uh, I know it's late and I've just completely crashed in on you, but would you like to go for a walk? I mean, only if you want to, of course, we-"

"Yes. ", I interrupt him, finally having regained my ability to speak and grateful for an opportunity to at least close the _physical_ distance between us. "Gladly. Lead the way."

Relieved, Gus offers me his arm and we stroll down the hallway and out of the door into the warm night.

"Walter Easton, by the way.", he says and unsuccessfully attempts a small curtsy while still walking. "My utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance."

A name which I'll need some time to adjust to. It's easier if I imagine Gus as a different person, forever banned to the sunlit grounds of the estate, red ribbon around his neck, than try to force this new, respectable and finely dressed name onto him.

I grin and shake his outstretched hand. "Julie Martin, pleasure's all mine, Mr Easton."

"Ah.".

He makes a face.

"What?"

"You see, Miss Martin, I fondly hoped your name to be something utterly ridiculous, so I could take the liberty of laughing at it all the way through the streets of New York and enjoy the look of embarrassment on your gentle countenance. So, if I dare, I would suggest to replace your boring, ordinary name with something as simply delightful as Amphillis Cloudesley in the future."

I burst out laughing and he joins in as the ice between us cracks and shifts.

"Sorry to disappoint you, _Walter._ "

"Hey, that's not too bad. I once knew a fella by the name of Theophilus Humphrey, and though he was as decent as any man, you'd constantly have the urge to smack him."

We keep on fooling about until the tension has eased enough to drop all pretence.

"So, uh.", I start, a tad uncomfortable. "Heard you're with your family now?"

My straightforwardness doesn't seem to bother him at all.

"Yeah, I'm married. I would've told you in there, but..."

"No no, it's alright, I understand. I'm... very happy for you."

He sighs and gives me a sideways glance. "The question feels kind of wrong, but how're you doing ever since, y'know?"

"Never better."

"You almost convinced me there."

I shrug in response and change the topic to something more important. "How did you escape? Canterbury gave clear orders after he uncovered my allegiance."

Now it's his turn to shrug.

"Saw them coming, those guards are dumb as rocks, you hear them ten miles against the wind, so I sneaked away to check on you and... They dragged you right past my hiding spot, I really wanted to help but there was nothing..."

His voice now almost pleading. "You have to believe me, they were too many, at least five or six and... "

His eyes beg forgiveness he doesn't have to ask for.

"Stop.", I say, shaking my head. "You did nothing wrong, all of this was my fault and mine alone. I'm only here now _because_ of you. If you didn't tell the Grand Master what happened I'd be dead."

He doesn't seem convinced.

After a deep breath, I continue, my voice trembling. "I thought my actions got you killed."

A flash of the smug grin that I've seen so many times. "Bad weeds grow tall, eh?"

I snort loudly. "Guess that applies to both of us now."

We walk in silence for a bit, then I open my mouth again, because he has to know. "It was Abney, Walter. She gave you up to them, I tried to deny it but they didn't believe me. I never intended for you to share my fate, or gain their favour by giving you up as well."

Walter stops dead on his tracks, but it's Gus' face who looks at me with eyes filled with indignation, faintly reminding me of the night we sneaked away from Abney because I hadn't been careful enough.

He puts his hands on my shoulders so I have no choice but to face him and firmly looks me the eye.

"Do not, not even for a single second, believe I'd ever blame you for anything that happened that night. And don't you dare blame yourself either."

If it wasn't so dark, I could have sworn that there were tears in his eyes.

He promises to come visit me as soon as he's in New York again and I smile and nod and act as if I believe him and wish him a safe journey back to his family in Philadelphia and wave until the night swallows him and I can sit on my windowsill again and bury my head in my pillow, knowing that I'll never see him again and those past hours of happiness is all I have left to hold on to.

Though I believe in neither prophets, nor old and blind women claiming to possess the gift of clairvoyance, there is something in human nature resembling an attenuated version of the clear feeling of imminent danger most animals seem to rely on. A nagging feeling in your stomach, as if something foul had been consumed and a sudden urge to run and avoid the situation at any cost.

Haytham sends for me on a cold and windy day by the end of October and even the dark clouds hanging low in the sky seem to foretell something grim coming and only further contribute to the clammy feeling in my chest.

Every inch of me wants to turn back as I ride out of the city and follow the vague instructions on my destination. My horse senses my uneasiness and responds with unusual skittishness, shying away from the smallest sounds with its ears flicking back and forth. I have to stop a few times and try to calm him, but my words and gestures are meaningless when the sound of my pounding heart seems so booming in the silence of the forest around us, only occasionally interrupted by the wind sweeping through the branches of the leafless trees or the cry of a distant animal.

The path we're following is so narrow and often intermitted that it's unlikely that this is a well-known or even man-made route, and I soon feel the painful awareness of my complete and utter seclusion from the safety of the crowded place of New York's streets. In moments like these, there's always a small voice whispering into my ear and slowly pressing the air out of my lungs.

 _No one will hear you scream._

I violently shake my head to rid myself of it, which naturally proves a wasted effort, it just grows louder.

 _No one will find you if you die here._

I read the instructions for what feels to be the hundredth time, also in vain. There is nothing in them indicating that I'm not on the right path.

What might Haytham want of me here in the middle of nowhere?

It takes me almost one and a half hours to find the ruin of the old castle described in the letter, a huge weight lifting off my heart when I spot the guardsman leaning against the moss-grown wall next to where the entrance once was.

"Down there.", he only says after I hand him my horse's reigns and cast him a questioning look.

A steep and derelict rock-hewn staircase leads down into a surprisingly well-maintained basement, with a long, almost constricting corridor leading further underground. After only a few steps I make out a sound which doesn't seem to belong to this ancient place, first muffled but clearer with every further step closer to its source.

Voices, at least two of them, raised in an argument, although seeming to put a lot of effort into not letting too much of their anger off the leash and tending to get more quiet towards the end of their sentences, as if restraining themselves once their first few heated words slipped their mouths.

I don't understand what they're saying, only a few louder words here and there before they fall back into their hissing whispers, which avail to nothing without the context of the whole conversation.

Haytham Kenway is one of those voices, his back straight as ever, hands clasped behind it and head raised to stare at the slightly taller man leaning in the shadows. The other one is Shay, though hardly visible in the poor light conditions familiar enough by now for me to be able to identify him.

I have no intention of spying or eavesdropping on them and make no effort to leave my arrival unannounced, loudly clearing my throat and greeting them with a simple "Gentlemen."

Something tells me they knew I was coming even before I opened my mouth because neither seem the least bit surprised.

"Julie.", Haytham says in a rather sober tone of voice. "You're here. Good. There's something I wish to show you."

Shay stays quiet, choosing to ignore me and frown at the ground beneath his feet instead, his arms folded in a seemingly defiant posture and his brows deeply furrowed as if contemplating how to best murder whoever upset him this much, my bet being on the Grand Master _in_ _propria_ _persona_ , who's not paying him any heed at the moment.

"Did uh... Something happen?", I hesitantly ask, unsure how to deal with the situation, not ever having encountered anything similar, the air between the head of the Order and his most efficient agent never having been so highly charged with conflict in my presence before. In fact, I rarely ever saw them exchange any harsh words before.

"No.", Haytham answers flatly, yet not quite able to hide the annoyance in his tone. "Shay and I merely had a minor disagreement you needn't worry about."

Cormac snorts loudly, casts the older Templar a sideways glance unmistakably aiming at reminding him of his unchanged opinion on whatever matter they were discussing, then pushes himself off the wall and walks past me and leaves us without as much as looking at me.

Haytham stops me from asking with a wave of his hand and indicates me to follow him further into the underground system of loosely branched rooms and corridors, stretching far wider than the castle walls above our heads.

"How's your training proceeding?"

"Did you drag me all the way out here just to ask me that?"

"Of course not."

I shrug. "Good, I suppose. According to circumstances."

He nods, apparently content with my vague answer. "And your overall state?"

"What?"

"How would you describe your overall state?"

The whole conversation is highly unusual and I have no idea what he's aiming at, my face mirroring the confusion I feel.

"Fine... What on earth is this all about?"

Haytham takes his time to answer, maybe contemplating what best to say or simply not wishing to tell me too soon. It takes us a couple more minutes in silence until we reach the end of the tunnel, stopping in front of a solid wooden door which looks like it could even withstand a battering ram.

There he turns, gives me a long and stern look, reaches into his coat and produces a new set of finely crafted silver daggers, the magnificent hilts subtly ornamented and the steel slightly folded and shining like a surface of water when hit by sunlight.

"Tying up loose ends, Julie."

Speechless, I carefully take the weapons into my hands, admiring them from all sides and not quite ready to believe they're really mine now, surprisingly lightweight and yet sharp as a shark's tooth.

"These are beautiful.", I whisper awe-stricken, swirling them around and letting them dance in my hands so easily that it's as if the past year had never happened for a second, and I'm back again on the training grounds and the steel a part of me, like another pair of hands, blending with my own and deadly once released, piercing through the straw target like butter.

I gently attach them to my belt and then look up to Haytham again, who took a few steps back while I was admiring my present.

He nods solemnly and hands me the key to the door. There's something which irks me about the situation, the gift surely wasn't coincidental and this secret-mongering of his is highly suspicious as well. As if he orchestrated all this for a special purpose, to somehow test me? Why does he give me a new set of daggers right before I'm supposed to open a door in a far corner of an underground system of tunnels beneath an old ruin deep in the woods?

The only way to find out, however unpleasant the thought may be, is to open that door.

I turn the key in the lock and pull with all my strength, the heavy door only yielding to my efforts inch by inch, almost agonisingly slow.

My eyes take a few moments to adjust to the darkness but once I've fully grasped what it is I'm looking at I immediately turn around, meet Haytham's imperious gaze with my own and, with a self-possession and poise I wouldn't have thought I could muster say: "I want to do this alone."

His eyes narrow slightly and his lips tighten to a line, but he grants me my request with a short nod, leaning against the opposite wall and waiting.

 _Clear the ring for Julie Martin._

I close the door behind me.

The cell is just as dark and filthy, but bigger than mine was, and equipped with a simple straw paillasse and even a small bedpan, which judging by the overpowering stench in the small room hasn't been emptied in a while.

The worst part of it is its inhabitant, no other than Lord Alexander Canterbury himself, huddled on the mattress beneath a rag full of holes, with his limbs bent and bloody, his hair and beard matted and glued together by time, filth and excrement, grown out so long that they cover the few parts of his body which the dirt has not yet stained beyond recognition or the rags fail to hide.

But most alarming are his eyes, still black as a raven's wing and yet wild, glistening with sparks of a raging fire inside him.

In only a few months of time, he appears to have aged centuries.

The whole scene is completely stripped of colour, as if upon entering the room, the world is suddenly desaturated to shades of filthy browns and greys.

I don't dare step forward, even in, or perhaps _especially_ in this state he still frightens me, the memory of our last encounter still vivid enough to make my back sting and twist and my skin crawl.

There's no clear evidence pointing out that he's even fully alive and present, but Haytham wouldn't have send me in if he wasn't. What would be the point of confronting me with a corpse, alive or dead? He must've kept him in this state, weakened and humiliated, but still strong enough for questioning.

"What a pleasant surprise, Miss Garceau. Though I suppose it's Miss Martin now."

Canterbury lifts one skeletal hand from the cot and makes a large gesture. "I'd offer you a seat but am afraid I haven't the means for it as of now. Surely, you've accustomed yourself to it by now."

I don't move, just stare back at him and fight the need to run away and hide somewhere in the woods where I don't have to see and think about this anymore and can lock myself in my mental fortress once and for all.

He seems to enjoy my discomfort, slightly shifting on his straw to make himself more comfortable, though even that slight movement seems to cause him a significant amount of pain, while still being able to glare at me with his feverish stare.

"Is it not remarkable how fast the tables can turn? Who would've thought we'd find ourselves in this situation a mere year ago? Alas, _alea_ _iacta_ _est_."

For some reason, there's no trace of remorse or contempt in his voice, its bitter undertone and the sneer on his face the only things proving his awareness of his fatal condition.

Canterbury has made peace with his fate and welcomes it with his head raised high, rather than convulsing

in fear, even with the sleeves of his sanity irrevocably dipped in madness. I can't help but admire him for his unyielding strength, wishing that I had been even half as courageous a few months ago.

 _Alea_ _iacta_ _est_ \- the die is cast.

"How poetic. You never struck me as a fatalist."

Habit and the eerie preservation of his noble bearing still urge me to address him as 'Sir', but it would seem ridiculous in this situation. He holds no authority in this place, no matter if his behaviour points otherwise.

A few of his teeth are missing, his smile looks like a grotesque grimace under all the dirt and blood and pain.

"I believe that extreme situations like the one you and me find us in right now always teach us the most about ourselves, wouldn't you agree, Miss Martin?"

Even though I should have a million reasons to despise him, the only persistent thought I have is that this simply isn't right, it disgusts me to the core.

Almost nothing of the dark-haired, formidable Aristocrat I remember has survived imprisonment, even his once so deeply melodic and calm voice has turned into a hoarse, spiteful whisper.

And yet there is nothing satisfactory about this scene, no desire for revenge or further suffering, just my wish to get as far away from him as possible.

"I see my men left a lasting impression on you. " he muses, not allowing me to lose myself in my thoughts for too long.

"What do you mean?", I ask, suddenly very nervous, my pretentious facade of indifference collapsing. How much does he know? How much _can_ he know? Did he talk to Angus before his imprisonment? Or Newt? Was he there at some point to check on their progress with me? No, that would've been foolish with the Templars on his tail, they must've sent him reports of some kind, but how would they know where to send it to?

"It has been almost a year, yet you still walk with caution and even though you're trying to hide it, slightly limp. Walking is like breathing, once we start actively thinking about and try to control it, it rarely ends up looking and feeling natural, wouldn't you agree?", he answers with a smile which makes his gaunt face look even more scary, a controlled, almost rational madness staring back at me from the depths of his black eyes. "Favouring your left leg and, evident by your slight slouching and the way you're leaning towards your left as well, the injury in your side isn't quite gone either."

I maintain a straight face, neither confirming, nor denying his deductions. After some seconds of silence in which I contemplate what to answer to him, I hesitantly say: "My wounds, however efficient they might have been, have healed."

He ignores that.

"Your situation isn't that different from mine now, just that your chains are metaphorical. One missed opportunity and everything is gone, and you don't even grasp a fragment of what it all was for."

I raise my head in defiance, trying to physically even out his rampant arrogance.

"Explain it to me then."

Canterbury's laugh quickly turns into a spasm of coughing, shaking his whole body for several minutes.

"How truly beautiful the naiveté of youth is. Do you not remember that I've told you already?"

After a while in which it becomes evident that I don't intend to answer, he does so himself.

"The Isu and their wondrous, terrifying legacy. A race we're so inferior to, that the very thought of them threatens to burst some peoples' pathetic mind-sets, so they run back into their churches and to a God who doesn't care, spend their lives trapped in the same mundane routine and wait for their deaths to eradicate every trace of their pointless existence. But at the same time, _we_ have evidence that there were superior, God-like beings roaming this earth millennia ago, and that their objects of power still exist somewhere on this planet and what do we do? Nothing. We keep the populace dull and ignorant and our knowledge to ourselves under a veil of secrecy and a conspiracy of silence and continue to meddle with things which vanish in their irrelevance when compared to what we _could_ achieve if we could only unite under the common goal of committing ourselves to the Precursors and their teachings. World peace, the end of hunger, diseases, corruption. Paradise on earth in our grasp, yet we don't lift a finger to claim it and rather bicker with politicians and other zealots."

"Like the Assassins? They seemed awfully convenient the last time we conversed.", I snort coolly.

"Ah yes, the Assassins. Much like us in their own way, yet fundamentally different. They strive for total freedom to achieve peace, a fairy-tale based on their childish trust in mankind, yet they seem oblivious to the fact that freedom is a mere affair of definition and that there are no definitive borders to it, as soon as someone decides your freedom stops where theirs begins, your freedom is suddenly finite and the concept reveals its flaws. Mankind is foolish, they do not call for freedom as they call for the security achieved by order. What would they do with a freedom they are not made to deal with? What does a cow care for freedom if she can live her life happily, with an overabundance of fodder, a warm place in her stable and a fence to keep her safe?"

I scoff loudly. "You contradict yourself. Mankind is stupid and are meant to be, but we should enlighten them with ancient knowledge?"

His voice remains as calm as ever.

"You hear my words, yet you do not listen. The knowledge and the artefacts aren't the final solution, they are the ladder to it, the trigger to the cogs of the process leading to a world the Bible would call Eden. A cure for the everlasting sickness of this planet, yet we refuse to use it."

"You are delusional and no better than those you deem so unworthy, chasing myths and telling your tales." I jeer at him, because I can think of nothing else to say. "The worst part is that not only do you genuinely believe your own mad ravings, but you expect others to follow your example."

It doesn't sound half as believable as I hoped it would, I have never been a good liar.

Canterbury's sardonic laughter pierces marrow and bone, his body coiling in pain, yet he doesn't stop.

"What a good puppet you are! I'm sure Haytham's proud on the other side of that door."

My despair increases by the second, there simply is _nothing_ I can say to oppose him and his high, hoarse laughter is ringing in my ears.

"Once a puppet, always a puppet." he chants in an unfamiliar, croaking voice. "You're just a chess piece begging to be moved around the board, nothing but an expendable pawn. Probably why you played your role as a servant so well."

I swallow hard, not daring to look at him anymore; I have nothing to counter his stabs, my hands as empty as I feel.

"I know." I whisper, more to myself than him, and then I explode. "Do you really think I don't know that? After all of what I went through? Do you honestly believe I can ever return to my life as if nothing happened? That I don't think about that each and every bloody day of my aimless existence here?"

He immediately stops laughing.

"Hmm.", he nods a few times, a contemplating look on his face, suddenly serious again. "I suppose you do understand. Now that your rose-tinted world is crumbling you're beginning to see it differently, yet still have time to set it back together the way it really is. That's an advantage you have over most of your so blissfully ignorant colleagues. Use it, even if the catalyst for it might seem like a price so brutal you wish you hadn't paid it, you can count yourself lucky. It took me far longer than you to realise it all and my chances are long gone and I accept that. Yours are not."

I nod mechanically, giving up the last traces of a defiance I never possessed.

Why does he sound so much like Val?

I can't tell whether he's sneering or smiling anymore, my vision is blurry and my head spinning.

"Then this is it, Miss Martin. There are no great speeches left, no ancient wisdom to teach. Only one, if you allow me. _Death never takes the wise man by surprise, he is always ready to go._ "

Canterbury seems content, he has delivered his message and knows that it will infest my mind for some time now, that it's impossible for me to simply forget this conversation ever happened.

He has accomplished what he intended to, ready for whatever horrors the Order might still have in mind for him before they finally allow him to die.

I take a deep breath and walk over to him, sitting down on the mattress and searching for doubt or fear in his eyes which I don't find.

"Who said that?" I ask and reach for my belt.

"Jean de la Fontaine, a wise man himself."

His smile is genuine when he reaches for my hand.

I close my eyes for a brief second, then draw the daggers' blade over his exposed throat.

The weapon makes it seem effortless, even easy, there's no great pressure or strength necessary, just the willpower and a steady hand.

I stay with him until the last drop of blood has left his body, then let go of his hand and shakingly close his eyes, the deep black ocean inside them trapped in his vacant stare.

I feel nothing, just the whirlpool of numbness which hasn't left me ever since my return to this life I no longer know, which I'm no longer a part of.

I just cut the man's throat who brought me all the suffering of the past months and yet doesn't even permit me to hate him, and I feel absolutely nothing, just the rising despair and confusion caused by my inexplicable lack of emotion and a growing headache.

Something about the peace on his face bothers me so much that I can no longer look at him, stand up and walk over to the door without turning back once.

Haytham hasn't moved, he's still leaning against the opposite wall and looking me over with his usual expression, careful not to betray any of his thoughts.

Did he intend for me to rid him of his adversary? Just another carefully planned move on the chess board?

"I hope you're satisfied now." I say and hand him back the daggers, which he takes after a moment.

"And you?" he asks in return, slightly raising his eyebrows.

I don't care to answer, just turn away from him and walk back until he's out of sight. Then I start running.

The guard outside is too surprised to react in time, I yank my horse's reigns from his hands and am already in the saddle before he realises my intention.

He calls after me as I urge the animal forward, away from the castle and into the forest, without any direction or destination, just the wish to get as much distance between me and Haytham as possible.

My mind is as if wiped blank, I can't grasp a single thought, the headache growing worse by the minute. Smaller branches graze my face as the horse finds its way through the forest, no longer relying on me giving directions.

The first thing I realise is my own surprise when we breach through a particularly dense portion of undergrowth and suddenly find ourselves on a stony and steep beach nestled in between some coastal cliffs, overlooking the rough and restless sea, stretching far out and merging with the low clouds in indistinguishable shades of stifling greys, all muted by the deafening sound of the high waves continuously crashing against the cliffs.

There's no way to follow the shoreline on land, the cliffs making it impossible to ride on and the way back seems just as insurmountable now.

A dead-end.

I let out a guffaw which scares the horse, it whinnies and tosses its head around, prancing on the spot as if it can't wait to leave again.

Gently patting its neck, I look out into the water.

"Isn't this quite ironic?" I ask the agitated animal. "This is quite literally the end of the trail. No passage left of right, no way back, only one way to go. We should be grateful, life very rarely leaves us with such clear instructions. Or maybe it's God, if you believe in such things."

The horse doesn't bother to answer so I dismount and carefully step from one stone to the other until I'm standing on the last one which the waves haven't reached yet, its surface still dry. One step further and my feet will meet the water.

I crouch down and wait for the next wave to reach me, carefully extending my arm and only lightly touching the surface with the palm of my hand.

"You shouldn't go in, it's awfully cold." I call back to my horse before realising that it's gone.

 _Bon voyage,_ I think and take off my shoes. I'm not sure why I do it, maybe because you're always taught to take them off before doing _anything,_ entering the house or, in my case, the ocean on an overcast, rainy day.

The water truly is cold, I shiver as the next icy torrent washes over my feet.

 _Was the ocean in my dreams cold as well?_

I don't remember.

For months I've felt like having fallen into a deep hole.  
I see the bright sky above me, I know it's there but it's restricted by the walls of my earthly prison.  
I also know that there is a way out, but however hard I try to climb it, the soil is muddy and my fingers only grip loose chunks of it, the hole growing and growing with my desperate attempts to escape it.  
Maybe this is my way out.

My feet soon grow numb, which I deem fitting enough to take another step forward, small but sufficient enough to feel a sting in my ankles.

It's easy, really. After months of looking for the final solution for the inner desolation nagging at me I now realise that I already uncovered it half a year ago, when I was trapped in another loop of despair and couldn't find a way out.

Even the water doesn't bother me half as much as expected, tiny pebbles prick the soles of my feet and the waves seem to draw me in.

No more talk of apples.

I take another tiny step, ignoring the doubt building in the back of my mind.

 _If you can't find the exit to a situation, just leave the way you came in._

Seems reasonable enough, why shouldn't it work this time?

All of this being another hallucination is the only comfort I manage to cobble together for myself, the other explanation being that I've simply and fully gone mad.

My solution works both ways.

Maybe each of those dreams are like doorways to another dream I have to traverse, and in the end I'll either find whatever I'm looking for, or finally realise that there is no such thing as reality and I'll have to choose one of the chambers in between the doorways to exist in.

Or maybe I'll just wake up in the black sea again and have to re-live through all of what followed.

Maybe this time I'll stay with Val, or follow her advice and leave to some distant place where my secrets are only my own and I can pretend to be someone else than me.

Would be nice for a change.

Two steps now, gooseflesh covering my knees under the wet fabric of my riding breeches.

"Time to wake again, old friend." I say to the resting dragon, though I'm not sure if aloud. He must be there somewhere, only waiting for me to call for him so that I can hide behind him again and peacefully yield control over every last fibre of my being.

Once the water reaches my waist and I struggle to remain standing, I turn my face towards the bleak sky and yell: "Our anchor we'll weigh and our sails we will set!"

Nothing returns but a few alarmed seagulls screeching back at me.

The next wave is so strong that it knocks me off my feet and I'm suddenly underwater, being tossed around so violently that I forget where left and right is.

 _No, no, no._

Why is this so different?

This water here is alive, playing and dancing with me like a child.

 _Moving._

Nothing feels right, there's no darkness, no bonds and no hard chair pressing against my aching back.

Where did it all go?

I open my mouth and scream, water immediately flooding my lungs. Choking and panicking, I flail around with my arms and legs, crying out for the beast to save me, but receiving no answer.

 _Where are you?_

One of my feet catches something solid, something other than the persistent water swirling me around and dragging me farther and farther out into its embrace and I hastily kick and scream even more and swallow even more of it but then I feel the ground again and this time it doesn't slip away from under my feet and my face breaks the surface.

Coughing and spitting uncontrollably, I try to breathe and remain balanced at the same time, having to stand on my toes to be able to hold head above the water. Another wave rolls in and pushes me forward and I use its momentum to take a step towards the shore. It seems desperately far away now, the water carried me a large distance in only a few seconds of time.

Step by step, I slowly work my way back, stopping every time I sense a wave coming and letting it pass while focusing on my stance. Soon my heels touch the ground again, which makes moving forward easier. Now, after it has dragged me out so far the waves seem to have changed their minds and push me back instead, until they first retreat to my chest and waist again, then to my knees.

Now it's the air which is freezing, each gust of wind painfully stinging on my skin.

I sit down in an area where the water reaches enough of me to protect me from the wind, but hasn't enough strength to pull me out again and listen to the pounding sound of my heart. The salt rendered my throat parched and sore and my eyes are burning, but none of it hurts as much as the pain in my chest.

This was it, my last solution, yet no solution at all. I did everything like before, but I didn't wake up because there will be no waking up. The pain tears me apart and I scream to get rid of it, I scream and scream all my anger and fear and shame out into the void of the restless sea before me. Nothing returns, only the rhythmical sound of the waves crashing against the shore. I break down crying. He's gone. The one I thought would never leave me. My constant and only companion in those months of darkness and pain. My fiercest friend and most feared enemy. It never came to my mind that he might vanish with the wounds, I always assumed he was just asleep, awakened by even the lightest taste of this liquid hell but he isn't there now. The beast has died with Aurelie Garceau and the sea I'm kneeling in isn't the black one I'm seeking. I'm more alone than ever before, even the fear and pain have deserted me.

It takes me a while accept it, but once I have, my own ridiculousness transforms my sobs into a humourless snicker and then I laugh hysterically

I laugh so hard and loud that it wouldn't surprise me if the guard back at the castle ruin heard me. Here I am, sitting amidst the icy floods of the Atlantic Ocean, overzealously keen on escaping a reality I refuse to accept rather than embracing it.

Wishing myself back to a sanctuary which has locked its gates on me and now drifting in between those two worlds without being able to decide in which direction to swim.

How wrong I was, the forest doesn't represent the way back to the Order, but every other way I can still take once I muster the courage for it. This isn't a decision between death and despair, but between death and _everything else._

I've merely been back a few months, which I've spent locking myself away in self-pity and waiting for the answers to come to me out of their own accord, how could I possibly know that this is all there is and especially all there will be?

 _You're a fool, Julie Martin._

I stand up swiftly, turn around and walk back to the stony beach to find my missing horse.

As it turns out, it's Haytham who decides my fate in the end, as he has done so often before.

Two weeks after my meeting with Alexander Canterbury and three days after I've overcome the flu which had restrained me to my bed ever since, I meet him on one of Fort George's old battlements.

The events on that day had one good outcome, as soon as she saw my condition when I finally returned, half frozen to death and feverish, my old maid Anette rediscovered her motherly instincts and immediately tucked me into bed, taking care of me in the following days like she did back when we met, when I was nothing but a frightened little orphan in a foreign country and with little more on my ribs then I have now.

She apologises a few times, but I interrupt and urge her to stop every single time, telling her the same thing I told Gus, or Walter, some time ago, that there is nothing to forgive.

That seems to comfort her enough to talk to me again, and though I'm quieter than I was before, I greatly enjoy her presence and stories, praises and complaints, together with whatever New York has to offer as of late.

Some part of me realises that I'll soon have say goodbye to her.

"I'm sending you to London." Haytham says, eyes scanning the horizon as if awaiting an enemy attack.

It hardly comes as a surprise, the destination itself perhaps, though I suppose it makes sense that he's sending me to the place he has ties to, and maybe some sort of influence left.

"I see."

"No objections?"

"You're compromised and I have no purpose here."

"Care to elaborate that conclusion?"

I take a deep breath.

"The war is coming to an end and only then will the full amount of its aftermath be revealed. While England and France may have suffered some economic and financial losses, it was on this very soil here where their conflict was fought out, leaving us as the perhaps biggest loser of the war. In its weakened state, this land is easily influenced, an excellent time for you to strike and expand the Order's power, also because, with the Assassins gone, you will find little to no opposition from the outside, so your greatest obstacle will consists in silencing the doubt within our own ranks. Considering the recent mutiny, your support as Grand Master seems to be built on sand as of late, so you have to quickly rid yourself of the question marks, which is me, known as unstable and unfit for any missions, assigning me anything here would appear as picking favourites which you can't afford, but then I suppose Shay must go as well, he's still widely seen as the Assassin Traitor in the Order. Since most missions from now on will be of a more diplomatic and political rather than a military character, I suppose his loss is a sacrifice worth making. Have you told him yet?"

Haytham sighs and nods, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger and slightly stretching his shoulders as if the whole world weighed them down.

"I'm certain he's delighted to yet again function as my babysitter. Was this why he was so mad at you the other day?"

As usual, he ignores my bitter tone.

"I still possess some influence within the British Rite, the new Grand Master there is more liberal-minded than some others, so you'll be well-provided with everything you need."

After about a minute, he hesitantly adds. "Shay has been secretly assigned to this mission for years, an ancient artefact of paramount importance has been stolen by the Assassins and has to be retrieved at all costs. I expect both of you to follow your orders."

Again with the mystical precursor objects.

He and Canterbury had a disagreement on them but on what account? Now that he's dead, I'll probably never know. I murdered my only opportunity of a different viewpoint, someone who has nothing left to lose than perhaps his version of the truth.

Though by now, he probably wouldn't be alive either way, having succumbed to Haytham's fading interest in him _and_ his ramblings.

What difference does it make?

As we stand there in an uncomfortable silence, estranged like we haven't been ever since our first encounter, I wonder if this stubborn silence is his way of saying farewell to me.

I suddenly have a desperate need not to let that precious moment slip in vain and open my mouth just to prevent him from leaving too soon.

"What is it like? England, I mean."

Haytham slightly cocks his head to the right, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint smile.

"Beautiful and monstrous alike. A large beast fed and groomed by society. And London is its heart and jaws."

"Well that just _boosts_ my enthusiasm to go there right away." I reply dryly, but manage a small smirk myself.

He turns his head to look at me directly, the smile hasn't fully vanished from his lips yet.

"You should look forward to it, however grim it might seem. While most people fail to even cross the borders of their own parch of land in their lifetimes, you have a grand adventure in prospect."

We stand there for a while, our pride and the distance between us not permitting any of our feelings to break the surface. Some part of me wants to thank him for everything he did for me, for his attempt of giving me a better life and purpose and the few precious happy years I spent under his guidance.

Some part wants to curse him for it.

"I want you to know that I'm not abandoning you.", he hesitantly says. "we have agents in London and Shay and I will stay in contact. You can trust him."

I swallow hard to rid myself of the knot in my throat. "I know."

"Good. I still have faith in you, Jules."

Tears fill my eyes and I quickly close my eyes to suppress them, biting down on my lip as hard as I can.

I can't answer, everything has been said and no words known to me could change anything any longer.

And yet I can't stop myself from watching him go.

He turns around halfway, looks at me with a strange expression, as if feeling the need to say something but not quite being able to find the words, sighs and gives me a short, affirmative nod.

I return the gesture, my throat slightly tightening and not yet allowing the small smile to fade.

Then he turns back around just as swiftly and disappears between the walls with the tricorne on his head and his cloak waving in the wind like his own, personal flag.

* * *

 _Potential Trigger Warnings: suicidal tendencies, severe depression_


End file.
